Astounding Science Fiction (British edition) — page 130: what you’re looking at

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

128 part of the date: 22nd of some month, year 1951. Also the word “Moskva,” which is the way they say Moscow. That’s where the letter must’ve been mailed; or received. The rest is blurry. Most of the stamp is covered with that black smudge all post offices seem to use. I handed the album back to the kid. “Hang on to it,” said I. “It may be worth something.” The kid answered that I can bet my sweet life he’ll hang on to it. Days went by. The giants were playing the series, or something. I’d almost forgotten about that stamp when one of the guys at the shipyard happens to mention that his kid’s regular nuts about stamp collecting. I grinned. “Mine too,” said I. Then I told him all about that strange _ stamp from Moscow. We talked about this for a while and he asked me why didn’t I show that stamp to old Gregory Sokoff, the shipfitter. “Old Greg reads Rusky,” said this guy. “He was born there. The Bolshies ran him out during their revolution.” Well, that Sunday I happened to meet Gregory in the local barroom. He was crying his eyes out into a full pint-size drink of vodka about some relatives he had left in Siberia thirty- five years ago. He wasn’t interested in stamps, especially Rooshian ones— definitely. Troubles of his own. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION However, after I had brought him two vodkas he staggered over to my house with me, which is only three or _ four doors from the gin mill. I sat him down and hollered for the kid to bring his album. So old Greg adjusts his specs, picks up the stamps and looks. and looks and looks. I’d given him two black coffees and a glass of tomato juice with lemon and onion in it, so he’s pretty sober by now. “Sure made one blotch off-fer effer-i-tink,” he grumbled at last. ‘The poz-off-fix mark smoodging oop bad, hey!” But just the same he started reading, slowly, low-toned: “U.S.S.R. one hunn-nert roo-bull— ai! Wow! Where they sending it— huh? Quiet—plee-eeze! What’s this? Arrive in Moskva July 22, 1951. 8 in the a.m. Mailed in some... huh . . - harbor. Port. A seaport? Let me —look. Ugh—blots! Dem fools! Bah! Ah—L—U—N—A! Hm-m-m! Luna- port? Never heard from it. Then on the stamp it says, Rocket Mail. I don’ ooder-stan’ . . . crazee pee-puls—”’ I jumped up. “Lunaport! Rocket mail!’ I grabbed the album. “Lemme look!” Then I yelled out. “This ain’t no fat- _ face guy smoking a cigar! It’s the full moon and a rocketship!”’ I dropped the album and stared. Say, have those Reds slipped a real one over on us this time? ee 5 na se a connilcloooks.c© iim