Astounding Science Fiction (British Edition) — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

BELIEF out of which nothing orderly could ever be extracted? Was the universe, for all its appearance, merely the original chaos, still waiting for the Spirit to move upon the face of its deep? Insomnia wasn’t helping him, either. Even strapped in upon the couch, he slept only fitfully, and then always with dreams. There was a knock at the door. Roger cried angrily, ““Who’s there?” A pause, and then the uncertain answer. “It’s Miss Harroway, Dr. Toomey. I have the letters you dic- tated.” “Well, come in, come in. Don’t just stand there.” The department secretary opened the door a minimum distance and squeezed her lean and unprepossessing body into his office. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand. To each was clipped a yellow carbon and a stamped, addressed envelope. Roger was anxious to get rid of her. That was his mistake. He stretched forward to reach the letters as she approached and felt himself leave the chair. He moved two feet forward, still in sitting position, before he could bring himself down hard, losing his balance and tumbling in the process. It was too late. It was entirely too late. Miss Harro- way dropped the letters in a fluttering handful. She screamed and turned, hitting the door with her shoulder, caroming out into the hall and dashing down the corridor in a clatter of high heels. Roger rose, rubbing an aching hip ‘“‘Damn,” he said forcefully. But he couldn’t help seeing her point. He pictured the sight as she must have seen it; a full-grown man, lifting smoothly out of his chair and gliding toward her in a maintained squat. 57 He picked up the letters and closed his office door. It was quite late in the day; the corridors would be empty; she would probably be quite inco- herent. Still—He waited anxiously for the crowd to gather. Nothing happened. Perhaps she was lying somewhere in a dead faint. Roger felt it a point of honor to seek her out and do what he could for her, but he told his conscience to go to the devil. Until he found out exactly what was wrong with him, exactly what this wild nightmare of his was all about, he must do nothing to reveal it. Nothing, that is, more that he had done already. He leafed through the letters; one to every major theoretical physicist in the country. Home talent was insufficient for this sort of thing. He wondered if Miss Harroway grasped the contents of the letters. He hoped not. He had couched them deliberately in technical language; more so, perhaps, than was quite necessary. Partly, that was to be discreet; partly, to impress the addressees with the fact that he, Toomey, was a legitimate and capable scientist. One by one, he put the letters in the appropriate envelopes. The best brains in the country, he thought. Could they help? He didn’t know. The library was quiet. Roger Toomey closed the Journal of Theoreti- cal Physics, placed it on end and stared at its backstrap somberly. The Journal of Theoretical Physics! What did any of the contributors to that learned bit of balderdash understand anyway? The thought tore at him. Until so recently they had been the greatest men in the world to him. And still he was doing his best to Ccommicloooks.eo