Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition, December 1955 — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

RAT RACE 71 turned toward the front door. “‘Just embalming fluid,”’ said Johnson. “‘That’s the way it’s delivered.” “Oh.” Lewis looked up at Johnson’s tightly drawn features, pulled away from the restraining hand and went out the front door. Rain was driving down and he ran around the side of the mortuary to his car, jumped in, slammed the door and sat down to wait. At 9:28 A.M. by his wrist watch an assistant mortician came out, opened the garage doors. Lewis leaned across the front seat, rolled down his right window. “You'll have to move your car,” said the assistant. ““We’re going out on a call.” “When are the other fellows coming back?” asked Lewis. The mortician stopped halfway inside the garage. ““What other fellows?” he asked. “The ones who went out on that call this morning.” ‘Must be some other mortuary,” said the assistant. “This is our first call today.” “Thanks,” said Lewis. He rolled up his window, started the car and drove to the county hospital. The battery of unanswered questions churned in his mind. Foremost was—Why did Johnson lie to keep me from going out the back way? At the hospital he delivered the bottle to the pathology lab, found a pay booth and called the Banbury Mortuary. An attendant answered and Lewis said, “I want to settle a bet. Could you tell me how embalming fluid is delivered to mortuaries?”’ ‘““We buy it by the case in concentrated form,”’ said the mortician. ““Twenty- four glass bottles to the case, sixteen ounces to the bottle. It contains red or orange dye to give a lifelike appearance. Our particular brand smells somewhat like strawberry soda. There is nothing offensive about it. We guarantee that the life-like—” “I just wanted to know how it came,” said Lewis. “You're sure it’s never delivered in metal tanks?” *“Good heavens, no!” said the man. ‘“‘It’d corrode them!”’ ‘“‘Thanks,”’ said Lewis and hung up softly. In his mind was the Holmsian observation: If a man lies about an apparently inconsequential thing, then that thing is not inconsequential. He stepped out of the booth and bumped into Dr. Bellarmine, the autopsy surgeon. The doctor was a tall, knobby character with gray hair, sun-lamp tan and blue eyes as cutting as two scalpels. “Oh, there you are, Lewis,” he said. ‘““They told me you were down this way. We found enough alcohol in that Cerino woman to kill three people. We'll check the stomach washings, too, but I doubt they’ll add anything.” “Cerino woman?”’ asked Lewis. “The old alcoholic you found in that shack by the roundhouse,” said Bellarmine. ““You losing your memory?” “Oh... oh, certainly,’ said Lewis. “I was just thinking of something else. Thanks, Doc.”” He brushed past the surgeon. “Gotta go now,” he muttered. comicbooks.conn