Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition, December 1955 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

12 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION «: “It would be mandatory—three and as many more as I could hold.” “Good. Very good, Mr. Blue. Now, assuming that you were on leave and fell into the company of a perfectly respectable but not hostile young pavoja: What would be your course of action?” “I'd pretend it was Eileen de Fleur—up to the point at which my normal Marakian biological urges would, unfortunately, suffer frustration due to accidental circumstances over which no one could possibly prove I had any control.” Mr. Puce chuckled. “Very good. Now, supposing—”’ And so forth, through a veritable nightmare of possible pitfalls which might betray his un-Marakian nature. Demaris threaded his deliberate way through all the vicissitudes which Mr. Puce could conjure up for him, and emerged unchallenged—and angry at the redundance of going through this college entrance examination when he knew that Indoctrination would supply him with the unconscious awareness of ail these things, driving the knowledge not into his information banks but into his reflexes. Still and all, he could not deny that the Agency had remained undetected only because of this kind of thoroughness—and that in this case, especially, with no time for the usual three days’ checking to be sure, every possible precaution still might leave some chink unguarded. “All right, Mr. Blue,” Puce was saying, “I think that about covers it. Now, if you'll just sketch out a situation map on this board, I think that'll be all—except for Make-up and Indoctrination, of course.’ Yes— Except for that mere trifle. Demaris twitched his upper lip as he picked up Puce’s stylus and laid out the map. Farla was a cluster of stars shaped like a badly pitted furnace clinker. Adjoining it on the side away from Earth—which he represented by a contemptuous, zero-shaped speck at the foot of the board—was Marak, with its stars grouped like a rat’s head, sniffing at the clinker. To Farla’s right, Genis and her stars were a twisted, mold-eaten orange peel. Workin quickly, he sketched in the profile view, which included such scattered bread- crumbs as Ruga, Dilpo, and Stain, all inextricably jumbled in by the fact that stars, unfortunately for diagramatics, occupied three dimensions, were any- thing but stationary, and were governed by countless dozens of little pocket empires that had seized in any and all possible directions once the Vilk yoke was taken off them. The pure white stars, he thought—the pure white stars live in a garbage heap. He turned the board around and pushed it toward Puce, who nodded approval. “Yes, that’s fine. All right, that does it. Thank you, and good luck, Mr. Blue.” Demaris grunted and stood up, taking his card. Of all the clerks at the Agency, Bill Kaempfert was the only one he could stomach, because Kaemp- fert was the only one who'd actually done any fighting. He almost turned around to club Puce as the man tried to prove something or the other about himself by loudly—and anything but absently—humming a chorus of 66 Wag i =a 5 Heroes All. comicbooks: conn