Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition, December 1955 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

IN CLOUDS OF GLORY eS Demaris took a gulp of his drink. “Sullivan!” “It’s his outfit, Thad,” Bill Kaempfert reminded him. “‘We just work there. He runs things the way he wants them.” Demaris reached out spasmodically, as though unconsciously trying to seize hold of his fleeing peace. For an hour, he had forgotten the habitual tensity of his muscles. Now his jaw was hardening again. ““Yeah!”’ he spat out harshly. “He sits in an office somewhere, where no- body ever sees him, and he runs it. I just go out and bleed dollar bills for him.’’ Demaris coiled his body into a tense crouch on the chair’s edge. “Now, come on,’’ Kaempfert said, “it’s not as bad as all that.” Demaris lashed out savagely. “‘Isn’t it? If there were still a TSN—if there were even the faintest chance of working for Earth instead of messing up the stars for Sullivan’s profit—would you stick with the Agency? Would you be selling yourself on every street corner, no reasonable offer refused?” He could see he was embarrassing the Kaempferts, but what he was saying was true. Bill Kaempfert grinned uncomfortably. ‘“‘That’s a point, Thad,” he admitted. ““But you don’t knock your bread and butter.” Demaris thumped his empty glass down on the side table. ‘““Would we starve?’’ he asked. “‘Would we really wind up begging in the streets? You, especially; couldn’t you get a job as a personnel manager with any company you wanted?” Kaempfert shrugged. “Maybe. If I could think up some explanation for not having any references. It’s been ten years since I’ve held a legal job.” “O. K. So you'd have a little trouble. But not that much. Besides, we’re off the point.” Kaempfert raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Demaris jammed a fresh cigarette into his mouth and inhaled raggedly. ““Let’s face it, Bill—we’re bad enough off now, but we’d cut our throats if we gave it all up and tried to live in this teashop society. We just don’t fit. Our personal frontier doesn’t stop at Pluto.”’ He grimaced at the rush of harsh smoke through his throat and jammed the cigarette out again. ‘‘Here we sit. Two prime representatives of a race that used to have guts to spare—that scared the universe half-silly the first time we pushed a rickety tin can to Sirius. And here we sit now—the backwash of the Wave of the Future!” Kaempfert put up a restraining palm. “Easy, Thad,”’ he chuckled in an attempt at good-humored moderation. ‘“‘Most people would figure Pluto was plenty far enough. Most people don’t ever even leave Earth. And we may have scared the universe, but we sure didn’t impress the Vilks.”’ Demaris brushed Kaempfert’s palm down as effectively as though there’d been a physical contact. “‘All right. So the barbarians licked us. That was when the TSN was fifteen ships and a handful of cranky torpedoes. Now the Vilks are gone for good. It was an Earthman that licked ’em, too.” Kaempfert nodded. “‘Old Connie Jones.” “Exactly! Connie Jones—an Agency man hired by Farla. So who got the territory an Ear thman won? Who moved in where Earthmen should CoOnnielooolks.comn)