Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition, December 1955 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

IN CLOUDS OF GLORY | 7 but it would have been ungentle for them to stare at him. He knew of their curiosity only by the fact that no face, among all those couples, turned toward him even at random. His lips twitched back from the points of his teeth. And with the Vilks fifty years gone in a pyrrhic war with Farla, you could expect the ships of Earth to be going out again. You could expect that. You could die of the eating hunger in your stomach, expecting it. You could grow old, with strings for muscles and pudding for a brain, expecting it. You could run up a string of successful, pointless duels. You could go to graceful, inbred gatherings in the elegant, bandbox mansions. You could listen to Schubert quartets and a lot of Lelius. But there was damned little Beethoven, and no Stravinsky. There was yearning, and no fulfilment. Not much of a desire for it. It was considered more gentle to simply yearn. A servant touched his arm. “Your pardon, Messire—a Mr. Brown is on the vid.” Demaris fought to keep from spinning around violently. ““Thank you,” he said in a voice that, incredibly, was calm enough. He strolled back into the mansion. Brown! Thank God! He’d been going mad, waiting. “We spill our all for the Agency— (Our lives are excitingly gory.) Pink or blue—any hue— Save the red of our birth— At the beck of crisp, green glory.” I Brown was the code name. Kaempfert was the man. Blocky, with a square face and blunt fingertips, he was one of sixteen men who sat behind their crowded desks in the Agency’s sparsely furnished Assignment Room. | ‘“How are you, Bill?’ Demaris said, shaking his hand. ““How’re Leni and the kids?” , ‘Fine, Thad. Getting healthier every day.’? He looked down at his stomach and chuckled. ‘“‘All of us. Sit down. You got here fast. Champing at the bit, Thad?” — Demaris nodded expressively. “I can’t take Earth any more.” He grimaced distastefully. “Croquet, Mr. Demaris? Liqueur, Messire? Agh! Our society’s like a translucent china dish, overlaid with gilt filigree and wrapped in cotton batting. It’s beautiful, it’s elegant, and safe—but you don’t dare use it to eat from.” Kaempfert smiled, his eyes sparkling briefly. Then he flicked a hand toward the files on his desk. ae K., then—let’s get you out where the red meat is. Briefly, here’s the jo “Farla’s as good as gone. She may not know it, yet, but the only thin | COMMGCOOOKSaCOL