Astounding British Edition, Vol. 6, No. 8 — page 65: what you’re looking at

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

And there were those in the bodyguard who remembered, with a superstitious shudder, that neither Mack the Elder nor Mack the Younger followed ARP, that they had long held the reputation of being sorcerers. This, in itself, was nothing—but it was said that the Mack sorceries worked. Halfway up the street, standing on a slight eminence, was a house larger than the others. And there was someone awake in this house —someone awake and working. Light streamed through the crevices of a shuttered window, and there was the sound of metal beating on metal. Old Bart, perched high on the driving seat of his caravah, gave the order to halt. He threw down the reins and they were caught by one of the bodyguard who had already dismounted. He clambered down from his - seat. ‘4 “They're up yet,” he growled. Slowly, ponderously, he stumped to the door of the house. He hammered upon it authoritatively. Somebody—a small, thin silhouette against the light from within— opened it. | “Bart,” said the chief. “Bart, Leader of the People of Bart, to pay ‘is respects to Old Mack an’ Young Mack, Chieftains o’ the People o’ Mack.” The figure in the door turned, shouted back to the interior of the house: “It’s Bart, — father!” “This is an odd time to come a visiting!” replied a deep male voice. “All right, Beth. Ask ‘im in!” “But he’s wi’ him!” . can’t come in, Leave ’em to find some place to sleep.” “Orl right,” growled Bart. “Orl of yer find some place ter kip—an’ don’t let me find any of yer in my caravan! ’Op it!” As the huntsman turned to go the chief called him back. “No, Enery. You stay wiv me. “Ave yer got the book?” — = “No, guv’ner. You ’ave.” “So I ’ave. An’ you'd better leave yer bow an’ arrers outside—these ere Mack chiefs are rather fussy.” It was light inside the House of Mack— so much so that the two visitors blinked, dazzled. Here were no crude, tallow candles such as lit the homes in their own village. There were, instead, lamps of brass, the flame shaded with a shield of translucent got about half a hundred men orn. Enery looked at the girl who had let them in. Slight she was, red-haired and freckled, with sea-green eyes. She was tall, too—far = above the average. With her the dumpy womenfolk of the People of Bart compared most unfavorably. She was like—he searched his mind for a simile—she was like the ~ women in the pictures in the book. Gravely, she returned his stare. Then she = DAWN OF NOTHING turned abruptly, She led the two men along a short passage, opened a door leading into a large room, She motioned them in. It was a strange room. It was half study— although the word had long since passed out of use—and half workshop. There were shelves along the two of the walls, and on them were rows of the little: boxes of fabric called books. And in one corner of the room there was a forge, and an anvil. At this Young Mack was working, beating away at a piece of metal. Old Mack—his silvery hair clean, his lined face shaven—advanced with outstretched hand, to greet them. His pale gray eyes were friendly and it seemed to Enery that he treated Bart with an affectionate respect. oe he said, “an’ what can I do for ye “T’ve a — for yer, Mack—and an’ ‘ard enough time I ’ad bringing it! Mind you,” continued Bart hastily, “even though it is a present I shouldn’t say no to a few ~ o’ yer brother’s good pots and pans in return.” An’ let’s see your present first, Bart.” ‘““"Rre!t” Old Mack took the little box of fabric. “Anither book!” he breathed. “Book?” barked Young Mack. Black haired, swarthy, sweating from his fire, he came to look. He looked over his brother’s shoulder. Then he spat disgustedly. “More o’ yon muck!” was all that he said. He went back to his workbench, busied with what looked like a sort of water wheel with metal blades. “Wot does it say?” demanded Bart. “Wot does it say?” “Tis a song. "Tis one o’ the songs of Ancients. Ay, ‘tis strange stuffi—but not wiout its ane beauty. But even I canna fathom what yon man who wrote it was driving at.” At his bench Young Mack was pouring water from a jug into a polished copper cylinder. He screwed home the cap of this cylinder, The girl Beth was beginning to take down the shutters from the windows. Enery was helping her. “Ay, an’ the pictures,” went on Old Mack. “Tis a bonny wee book, friend Bart, an’ Ah’ll see what ma brither has tae gi’e ye.” “An ye’re barterin’ ma guid pots an’ pans for yon trash?” demanded the man at the workbench. : “It is getting light, Uncle,” said Beth from the window. “Never mind that. Fetch me fire, girl, tae put under ma wee boiler!” “But what does it say, Old Mack?” de- manded Bart. “Wot does it say? If it is a song, carn’t yer sing it?” There was a pause, a silence, broken only by the faint hiss of escaping steam. The pale Eomicbooks=co m