Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

WHAT THIN PARTITIONS 23 tilted, a big blob of blubber would find the floor hard and unyielding. Finally they sent for me. I left my cylinder locked in my desk and walked up to the conference room under normal gravity, hoping the weight would pull me down to a worried, heavy, lugubrious frame of mind so stylish in the real-world framework. The conference room was an aroma of dignity, an overpowering impres- siveness of brass and braid. Thin faces, fat faces, long faces, squeezed up faces, but Pinky was not there. Apparently he was off on some other dangerous mission. The faces did not, could not, live up to the scrambled eggs and fruit salad of their caps and collars and sleeves and chest. I thought of Emerson’s dissertations on compensation and giggled. What they lacked in those faces they tried to make up for in decorations. I knew that I would not discuss frameworks in this room. They pressed me for explanations. They bored in deeper and deeper. I could not help it. My mood began to lighten, become irresponsible. I hun on to what dignity I could muster for the sake of the apprehension and alarm in Old Stone Face’s eyes. He wasn’t such a bad guy. At least he didn’t depend on uniforms to make him impressive. “The first cylinder was an accident,” I said to the blur of faces down the long table. “‘Sometimes accidents are hard to duplicate. So many factors, gentlemen.” “But you did duplicate it,” the com- manding general pointed out. “You activated five more. We have ques- tioned Dr. Auerbach at length. He knows absolutely nothing of the method you use in activating these cylinders. Apparently no one knows but you. It is imperative that we know.” I was in for it now. I had to explain somehow, or something. “But, gentlemen,” I protested hesi- tantly, and then heard myself saying, “I spoiled my poltergeist in making this half dozen, and I don’t have another.” There was a sigh of relief around the table, relaxation, suppressed con- tempt. I had not realized before how tense they all were. “I’m certain,” the commanding general said placatingly as if he were trying to reason with a small child, “that it can be replaced.” “‘They’re hard to get,” I faltered. ‘We will get them,” he stated pomp- ously, confidently. “Difficult perhaps for you personally, yes, or even Com- puter Research.” He smiled patiently, “But for the military it is another matter entirely.” He turned and waved There are brilliant new stories by ERIC FRANK RUSSELL and J. T. MINTOSH in the latest issue of NEBULA Science Fiction Britain’s ONLY top-notch science-fiction magazine. Bi-monthly from your newsagent. COMiGdooks7ico im