Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition, December 1955 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

6 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION Holtz frowned, discomfitted. Demaris stood up impatiently and snatched a liqueur from a passing servant’s tray. The heavily flavored cordial bit at his tongue. And for all the battles won in parlors and drawing rooms, where was Earth’s frontier today? His lip curled. He swung around and stabbed an extended forefinger at the startled Oxford. “I should like to point out,” he bit off in the astonished man’s face, “that what you have just cited was the USSR’s suicidal policy of wasting men, not the superiority of its air arm, which was consistently hampered and eventually destroyed by a typical Russian insistence on trying to make a rapier do a bludgeon’s work.” Holtz stepped between them, his temples throbbing and his nostrils white. “You are ungentle, sir.’ Demaris looked at him coldly, a certain amount of anticipation tightening the curl of his fingers. “And you are a fool ass.’ The muscles knotted at the corners of Holtz’s thin jaw. He drew back his hand to slap. Demaris lifted his cheek a fraction of an inch, his head tilting to present a willing target. The buzz of conversation was dying in the room, smothering under a wave of rapt silence. Oxford reached out hastily and pushed himself between Holtz and Demaris. “Eh . . . Colonel Holtz . . . I don’t believe you’ve previously met Thad- deus Demaris. The introduction is my pleasure.” The pallid urgency in Oxford’s eyes were mimicked by Holtz’s sudden slackness of mouth. His arm lowered limply. ““Ah? Uh . . . oh, no, Oxford, my pleasure, I’m sure—”’ Demaris smashed the back of his hand across Holtz’s face. The hunter stumbled back, one hand pressed to his nose. Oxford made a noise of protest. Demaris stood motionless, his face set. Holtz regained his balance. “Really, Mr. Demaris,” he mumbled, waving Oxford back, ‘‘My sincere apologies—”” Demaris looked at him with something much like disappointment. He spun on his heel and stalked off. Even the night was dishonest. Laden with perfume, the artificially circulated air stirred a sham breeze across the balconade. A sickle of moon drifted among the gray-silver clouds. Behind him, Demaris could hear the last notes of ““Death and the Maiden”’ fading politely away. How far in the past was Oxford’s and Holtz’s war? Three hundred years. And after finishing that war, how far in the future did Man imagine his Empire of Earth lay, stretching out into the stars? One century? Two? With the interstellar drive and the Terrestrial Space Navy to ride it? And where, now, was Earth’s frontier, a full hundred years beyond that well-planned future? Pluto. That’s where it was. Just barely, Pluto. All right. You could understand that. An empire only goes as far as its enemies will let it. A hundred years ago, the Vilks had drawn the line. Demaris smashed his flat, horny palm down on the coping of the terrace. The slap of sound startled some of the strolling couples in the formal ga ardens, Comichooksrcom