A. Merritt's Fantasy Magazine, October 1950 — page 120: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

RACKETEERS IN THE SKY 117 make-up barber to shave it off and make it snappy. Fifteen minutes later, on nearby tele- screens—some four years later, on the telecast receivers of any inhabitants of the possibles worlds of Proxima Centuari— appeared the familiar, professionally smil- ing features of Dr. Bull, over the red out- line of a bull. As it had done every hour on the hour for thirteen years, the little doctor’s crisp canned voice began to announce the glad tidings of Taurium and radiogenic re- activation. Abruptly, however, it was cut off, and his benign face dissolved into blackness. The blackness was slashed with the bright blades of ion-beams. The silence was shattered with the crash of glass, the hurried rattle of auto-guns, the scream and the obliterating blast of a rocket-shell. Out of the breathless pause that followed, a new voice spoke: “‘Hail, comrades of the Iron Watch!”’ Iron Scarr’s deep powerful voice was quite authentic—the sound engineers of TAU, with their frequency charts, modulators, and filters, were competent to give any actor convincing accents of any- thing from a bull to a cricket. | ee SCARR’S battered, high-cheeked face glared from the screen with tri- umphant close-set eyes. The make-up de- partment of TAU was equally advanced, and Dr. Bull's long dramatic training had not been in vain. “‘Comrades,”’ roared Scarr, “‘we have won three victories. The Appenine Base is ours! The Valiant is ours! Now the forts of Taurus—and TAU—are in our hands! Forward to the Earth!” Scarr raised his great hairy hand, in the clenched-fist salute—the twin mikes had been moved six inches closer together, to make five-feet-two appear a whole foot mightier. : “Unfortunately, however,” the tall con- queror said, “‘there must be a slight delay in our plans. The glorious attack of the Iron Watch has been crippled by a cowardly stab in the back. Dr. Bull of Taurus, that infamous renegade quack, has disabled the Valiant with a dastardly shot fired from a torpedo tube disguised as a telescope. “Wait, comrades—and keep your cour- age burning. Repairs are being rushed. The Valiant will be ready in two hours, to move toward her mission on Earth. Meantime, comrades, keep tuned to TAU, and await my orders for the moment of our splendid attack on the money-stuffed bureaucrats of the police, the patrol, ICC and IMA—” Iron Scarr caught himself, gulped, hur- ried on: “Dr. Bull, tht notorious charlatan, will be punished for his craven stroke, as soon as he can be captured by our fearless legions of the Iron Watch. He has fled from TAU, down into the pits in which are located the gravity apparatus, and the geodesic drive that was used to steer this tiny planet toward Earth from its former orbit. “But our Iron Watch storm troopers, under the brilliant leadership of loyal Commander Batson, aided by General Berg and his splendid men from the ranks of the planeteer, are preparing to take the pits by assault. Even now they are set- ting charges of titanite, to demolish the locked bulkheads. Dr. Bull is cornered, like the whiskered rat he is. “So, comrades, with imagination, with audacity, we march toward victory!” The conqueror paused. His massive close-clipped head nodded, as if to acknowledge unheard applause. But his seamed face turned very serious. His voice, when he resumed, was hushed and grave: “While we wait, comrades, I am forced to communicate a matter of the utmost importance. Remember, comrades, that MICLOOKS (C(O) (C(O)