Puzzle Solution from Issue #1
With art by co-founder JB, and all the frustration of the mimeograph medium.
Here I post articles from my Star Trek Fanzine: Sehlat's Roar. I hope to place all of the work online for fan's enjoyment. This Fanzine was first published in the late 1970's by a band of most unlikely friends located in Flat Rock, in the southeastern quadrant of Michigan. The material is clearly born of the time, and some of it is quite dated; yet, for those who enjoy this sort of thing, I trust, at the least, interesting.
With art by co-founder JB, and all the frustration of the mimeograph medium.
The covers for the first issue were each hand printed from a linoleum block master. They were printed in orange, red, yellow and gold ink.
I never remember getting drink with my friends, but this article would seem to suggest otherwise~!
For instance, after they leave the ship, the first life-form they meet is a cow. They take it as an example of the prime native inhabitants! Then a jumbo jet flies over them. They look from cow to the jet and back again, then write in their little notebooks, “They fly.”
Rereading this one, I am clearly reminded that I was a sophomore in HIGH SCHOOL when I deigned to undertake this project with my friends. Ms. TH, who has authored (and illustrated) much in this first issue was both generous with her submissions and her technical understanding of how mimeographs worked, for example. Note that all of the images in this issue were hand drawn onto the wax coated film of the mimeograph templates -- and now with computers! Oh my!!!
THE PRIDE: BASIC SOCIAL UNIT
THE SOCIAL STRUCTURE
Economically, the Mrraneti rank with the Vulcans in the apparently phenomenal stability of their market system. To humans, used to industrialism, they seem rustic and primitive since most of the prides engage in farming. Farming you ask? But the Mrraneti are carnivorous. Wouldn’t they be a hunting culture? The answer is no. The hunter has no time to develop a civilization. The Mrraneti are farmers who grow feed for their livestock, which they kill and eat. It’s the same for us.
PROBLEMS
This story was the creation of Ms. TH. It comes out of her feelings about the implied 'atheism' in Star Trek, and in particular one treatment of death in a story in our sister fanzine, INTERPHASE (see the author's notes). And as such was a welcome idea in the pantheon of SciFi spirituality. It doesn't necessarily reflect the opinions of myself or the other co-founder of this 'zine, but hey, it doesn't have to.
The tiny shuttlecraft drifted now, its nose and undercarriage crumpled and dented, an infinitely small bit of jetsam in the immensity of velvety black space; a speck of dust on a jewel-encrusted curtain. It was only three days out from Starbase 10, but was now falling inexorably into a trajectory that would, if uninterrupted, bring it some years from now in the vicinity of the double component of the triple star system of which the starbase and its parent planet were a part. Bu that time, of course, its two occupants would be long dead, their forms inert and frozen in the vacuum of space.
“T’Krrel?” came Daniel’s voice at last, hardly more than a weary whisper.
When the shuttlecraft was found three days later, quite by accident, and brought into Starbase 10, the portmaster and the chief medical officer didn’t expect to find its occupants alive, nor did they. When the craft had been warmed to ambient temperature in the docking bay and its batteries recharged enough to open the door, the two men stepped into the cold, dark interior. Here they found the frozen bodies of Lt. Cmdr. Daniel Hendrickson, late of the POTEMKIN, and T’Krrel of Vulcan, who was to have been the new field representative in the base offices of the huge trading firm of Thzverit. The expressions on their still faces seemed to indicate that death had been peaceful. After a long moment of silent contemplation, the portmaster cocked an eyebrow and nodded slightly, murmuring, “Hmmm. I’d such like to see what our resident Vulcan theologian has to say about this. . .”
"Flowers sweet
(The first of 2 poems by Ms. JH)
In beginning the process of making a fanzine, my colleagues and I advertised our intentions in other fanzines in the hopes of soliciting contributions. This most excellent story by Ms. JC was probably the best thing in the entire debut issue. It seeks to make sense of loose ends from a pivotal episode in the original series (The only one that existed at the time!) and tackles a very controversial issue of the day: "Suicide"...an issue we still struggle with today, some 30 years hence.
“Reporting as ordered, sir.” Spock seemed even stiffer than usual, and Kirk moved forward to study him.
In his quarters, Spock apologized in advance. “Events began to move so fast that I had no time to clear my work or prepare for your visit. Please forgive the deficiencies of my hospitality.”
Spock rose and glanced at the reader; his hand shot out and punched the cancel. “Will you have another drink, Doctor?” His voice was low and slightly menacing. But McCoy was not to be deflected.
Ten minutes later, he decided it was safe to emerge. He listened as he dressed. Silence. Entering the workroom, he glanced around. The captain was gone. Spock was sitting at the table, looking slightly spaced.
HAUNTED
Some things have come to mind as I have re-typed and prepared this story for posting. And most of them are not complimentary to it. And so I offer them to you now for your consideration and grace.
Ensign Shirley Dayton stood on a chair in the center of the recreation area that took up a fourth of deck 8 aboard the starship Lexington and surveyed her handiwork. The large room, normally decorated in a haphazard mélange of styles from the prosaic to the whimsical, had been transformed into a large cocktail lounge in deep orange and rich red especially for the guests of honor, the thirteen members of the Vulcan delegation to the 'Les Mesdemoiselles Federation' Pageant being held on Babel. Cmdr. Branfield, the Lexington's first officer, who served as both chief navigator and chief of security (at least temporarily), had suggested the color scheme and the greeting now emblazoned across the banner fastened to the curve of the inner hull. Immediately below it was a buffet table groaning under the vast selection of Vulcan delicacies, also programmed by the commander, who had apparently spent some time on Vulcan. Nearby were tables laden with foods from Tellar, Andoria, Schillia, Earth, and Cait, home of the Mrraneti.
The first group to arrive was the Tellarite delegation, not so much interested in punctuality as in the prospect of a free meal -- or so it seemed to Dayton. Certainly their first stop was the table bearing Tellarite foods, which she had discovered were so spicy they burnt her mouth. Maybe the Tellarites liked their food highly seasoned because otherwise they'd never even taste it as they bolted it down -- or maybe they bolted it because it was so unbelievably hot.
As a good hostess must, Dayton spent the evening moving around, deftly inserting stray newcomers into various discussion groups, seeing to it that these remained fairly well mixed and frequently aired. Now, however, she was taking a breather, enjoying some of the thick red juice she'd tried earlier, as well as another piece of that delicious prookle. It was rather like a cross between peanut brittle and brownies, and tasted vaguely like butterscotch intertwined with vanilla. As she ate, she observed the chattering groups. So far, everything was going just beautifully. Even the Tellarites seemed to be on their best behavior. No complaints about the food being too flat for a change. Perhaps she dared hope they would get through the evening unscathed.