Astounding British Edition, Vol. 6, No. 8 — page 34: what you’re looking at

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

32 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION ‘Just the two of us, under the blazing rays of great, red suns swinging in a molten sky. I couldn’t count them. I became visually aware only of the Beast. An ant in-the bottom of a washbowl with a dog snuffling at it might feel the same way. If the Beast had been anything like a dog. If it had been anything like anything. It was a mass the size of several elephants.. An obscene hulking gob of animated, semi- transparent purple flesh, with a gaping, circular mouth or vent, ringed inside with pointed beslimed tusks, and outside with— eyes, As a static thing; it would have been a ‘filthy envenomed horror, a thing of sur- . passing dread in its mere aspect; but the most fearsome thing was its nightmarish mode of progressiony, Limbless, it jerked its prodigious bulk forward in a series of heaves—and lubricated its path with a glaucous, viscid fluid which slopped from its mouth with every jerk. It- was heading for us at an incredible pace, Thirty yards— Twenty— The rigidity of utter fend gripped my limbs. This was true nightmare. I tried des- erately to think ... flame-thrower ... ow. ..Icouldn’t remember. . . my mind was slipping away from me in face of the onward surging of that protoplasmic jugger- naut ... the slime first, then the mouth, closing . . . my thoughts were a screaming turmoil— Another voice, a deep, drawling, kindly voice, from an unforgettable hour in child- hood—“There’s nothing in the whole wide world or out of it that a slug from Billy here won't stop. There’s nothing you can meet in dreams that en here won't stop. He'll come into your dreams with you from now on. There’s no call to be scared of anything.” Then the cool, hard butt in my hand, the recoil, the whining irresistible chunk of hot, heavy metal—deep in my subconscious. “Pop!” -I gasped. “Thanks, Pop.” The Beast was looming over me. But Billy Hehe my hand, pointing into the mouth. [ red. The Beast jerked back on its slimy trail, began to dwindle, fold in on itself. I fired again and again. { became aware once more of Craswell beside me. He looked at the dying Beast, still huge, but rapidly diminishing, then at the dull metal of the old Colt in my hand, the wisp of blue smoke from its uptilted barrel. And-then he began to laugh. , Great, gusty laughter, but with a touch of hysteria. a And as he laughed, he began to fade from view. The red suns sped away into the sky, became pin points; and the sky was white and clean and blank—like a ceiling. In fact—what beautiful words are “in fact”—in fact, in sweet reality, it was a ceiling. Then Steve Blakiston was peering down, easing the chromium bowl off the rubber pads round my head. “Thanks, Pete,’ he said. ““Half-an-hour to the minute. You worked on him quicker than an insulin shock.” I sat up, adjusting myself mentally. He pinched my arm. “Sure—you’re awake. I’d like you to tell me just what you did—but not now. I'll ring you at your office.” I saw an assistant taking the bowl off Craswell’s head. Craswell blinked, turned his head, saw me. Half-a-dozen expressions, none of them pleasant, chased over his face. He heaved upright, pushed aside the assistant. “You lousy bum,” he “Til murder you!” I just got clear before Steve and one of the others grabbed his arms. “Let me get at him—TI'll tear him open!” “T warned you,” Steve panted. “Get out, quick.” : I was on my way. Marsham Craswell in a nightshirt may not have been quite so impressive physically as the bronzed gladia- tor of his dreams, but he was still passably museular. shouted, That was last night. Steve rang this morning. : “Cured,” he said triumphantly. “Sane as you are. Said he realized he’d been over- working, and he’s going to take things easier—give himself a rest from fantasy and write something else. He doesn’t remember a thing about his dream-coma—but he had a curious feeling that he’d still like to do something unpleasant to a certain guy who was in the next bed to him when he woke up. He doesn’t know why, and I haven't told him. But better keep clear.” “The feeling is mutual,” I said. “I don’t like his line in monsters. What’s he going to write now—love stories?” Steve laughed. “No. He’s got a sudden craze for Westerns. Started talking this morning about the sociological and histori- cal significance of the Colt revolver. He jotted down the title of his first’ yarn—‘Six- Gun Rule. Hey—is that based on some- thing you pulled on him in his dream?” I told him. So Marsham Craswell’s as sane as me, huh? I wouldn’t take bets. 3 Three hours ago, I was on. my way to the latest heavyweight match at. Madison Square when J was buttonholed by an off- duty policeman. Michael O’Faolin, the biggest, toughest, nicest cop I know. “Pete, m’boy,” he said. “I had _ the strangest dream last night. I was heipin’ CORMCOOOKS xO