Astounding British Edition, Vol. 6, No. 8 — page 29: what you’re looking at

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

ee —_ oe et eee oa. =, ee DREAMS ARE SACRED = 27 and therefore to be wearing—anything else. But something cooler was indicated in this heat, generated by Marsham Craswell’s imagination. & Something like his own gladiator cos- tume, perhaps. " Sandals—Fine. There were my feet—in sandals. , Then I laughed. I had nearly fallen into the error of accepting his imagination. “Do you mind if I switch off one of Sex suns?” I] asked politely. “It’s a little ot.” I gave one of the suns a very dirty look. It disappeared. The gladiator raised his sword. You are —Garor!” he cried. “But your witchery shall not avail you against the Sword!” He rushed forward. The shining blade cleaved the air towards my skull. I thought very, very fast. The sword clanged, and streaked off at a sharp tangent from my G.I. brain-pan protector. I'd last worn that homely piece of hardware in the Argonne, and I knew it would stop a mere sword. I took it off. “Now listen to me, Marsham Craswell,” I said. “My name’s Pete Parnell, of the Sunday Star, and—” 3 Craswell looked up from his sword, chest heaving, startled eyes bright as if with re- cognition. “Wait! I know now who you are—Nelpar Retrep, Man of the Seven Moons, come to fight with me against the ’ Snake and his ungodly disciple, magician and sorceress, ~Garor. Welcome, my friend!” He held out a huge bronzed hand. I shook it. | 7 It was obvious that, unable to rational- ize—or irrationalize—me, he was writing me into the plot of his dream! Right. It had been amusing so far. I'd string along for a while. My imagination hadn’t taken a licking—yet. Craswell said: “My followers, the great- hearted Dok-men of the Blue Hills have just been slain in a gory battle. We were about to brave the many perils of the Plains of Istak in our quest for the Dia- mond—but all this, of course, you know,” “Sure,” I said. “What now?” Craswell turned suddenly, pointed. “There,” he muttered. “A sight that strikes terror even into my heart—Garor returns to the battle, at the head of her dread Legion of Lakros, beasts of the Overworld, drawn into evil symbiosis with alien intel- ligences—invulnerable to men, but not to the Sword, or to the, mighty weapons of Nelpar of the Seven Moons. We shall fight them alone!” : Racing across the vast plain of green dust towards us was a horde of ...er... creatures. My vocabulary can’t cope fully with Craswell’s imagination. | Gigantic, shimmering things, drooling thick ichor, half-flying, haif-lolloping. Enough to say I looked around for a washbasin to spit in. I found one, with soap and towels com- plete, but I pushed it over, looked at a patch of green dust and thought hard. The outline of the phone booth wavered a little before I could fix it. I dashed in- side, dialed. “Police H.Q.? Riot squad here—and quick!” I stepped outside the booth. Craswell was whirling the Sword round his head, yelling war cries as he faced the onrushing monsters. From the other direction came the swelling scream of a police siren. Half a dozen good, solid patrol cars screeched to a dust-spurting stop outside the phone booth. I don’t have to think hard to get a New York cop car fixed in my mind. These were just right. And the first man out,-run- ning to my side and patting his cap on firmly, was just right, too. Michael O’Faolin, the biggest, toughest, nicest cop I know. “Mike,” I said, pointing. “Fix ’em.” “Shure, an’ it’s an aisy job f’the bhoys I've brought along,” said Mike, hitching his belt. He deployed his men. Craswell looked at them fanning out to take the charge, then staggered back towards me, hand over his eyes. “Madness!” he shouted. “What madness is this? What are you doing?” For a moment, the whole scene wavered. The lone red sun blinked out, the green desert became a murky transparency through which I caught a_ split-second glimpse of white beds with two figures lying on them. Then Craswell uncovered his eyes. The monsters began to diminish some twenty yards from the riot squad. By the time they got to the cops, they were man- size, and very amenable. to discipline—en- forced by raps over their horny noggins with nightsticks. They were bundled into the squad cars, which set off again over the plains. re Michael O’Faolin remained. I said: “Thanks, Mike. I may have a couple of spare tickets for the big fight’ tomorrow night. See you later.” : “Just what I was wantin’ Pete. “Tis me day off. Now, how do I get home?” I opened the door of the phone booth. “Right inside.” He stepped in. I turned to Craswell. “Mighty magic, O Nelpar!” he ex- claimed. “To creatures of Garor’s mind you opposed creatures of vour own!” He’d weaved the whole incident into his ~ plot already. “We must go forward now, Nelpar of the Seven Moons—forward to the Citadel Eomichbooks.co ‘