Astounding Science Fiction, British Edition — page 48: what you’re looking at

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

46 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION away. He was a young fellow in his mid-twenties with thinning hair and eager, flashing eyes. He paused while Lucille Wentworth with her berry bucket passed in front of the scene he was painting, picking the wild berries. It didn’t strike me as odd that a town girl would be picking berries out here because lots of young folks do it to pick up extra money. But you don’t go picking berries in a playsuit like she was wearing. You’d get too many scratches. Both of us watched the near-naked figure for a second and I don’t know what was on his mind, but I— | *You’ve got a picturesque town here, Marshal,”’ said Arnold Vivian, grinning at me. I didn’t grin back. It doesn’t pay to get friendly with people you may have to run in later. “Don’t call me Marshal,”’ I said. “‘I’m Henry Horner, just plain police. And if that gal over there doesn’t move on—” “She does interrupt the scenery,” he said, and his eyes got an excited look. “This town is Benton,” I said, “and we need new young men. If you get into any trouble in this town, we've got a real fast brainwriter who'll straighten you out. But chances are you won’t ever leave here, if that happens.” His smile got cold. “I don’t get into trouble, Mr. Horner,’’ he said. “‘Put a paint brush in my hand and I’m adjusted. I’ve been to Europe, the Orient and every state in the Union and I haven’t seen a brainwriter yet that could make me happier or more adjusted.” “Don’t forget,” I said, “we need workers these days. Who needs pic- tures on canvas?” He dabbled in some color with his brush. His lips tightened. I could tell right away that he hadn’t been selling any pictures. “Who needs pictures on canvas?” he repeated. ““Why ... me. Maybe some day a few others will agree with me.” ‘Somehow I liked that answer. “Got any money?” I asked. He stood up and looked me in the eye. He was a wiry lad, healthy and proud-looking. ‘Mr. Police,” he said, ““there’s food in my stomach, clothes on my back and supplies in my knap- sack—I got it all honestly. That’s where your interest in me ends. Why don’t you go back to town and write your hovering tickets for overparked aircars?”’ | “Just asking,” I said. Somehow I felt sorry for him and tried to be friendly. “I used to be sort of... artistic . . . myself. Baritone concert style.” He was back to painting now. “I'll bet you’re good on a police whistle, too,” he said icily, and I left him, figuring if he was too dumb to take a hint, I couldn’t help that. I went over and tagged Luce Went- worth. “Go home and put on some clothes,” I said. “That fellow over there is an artist in love with art, not women. He ain’t got time. In other words, dress it up, Luce!” She openly sneered at me, twisting her fine, young body so that the sun glistened from her revealed, bare skin. If young Vivian was as normal as I feared, he was going to have a hard time around Benton. “Since when does Big Thumbs be- come a fashion expert?’’ Lucille asked me. “I’ve got enough on—leave me alone.” And she stalked off, flirting her hips so that I could feel my own skin tingle. There was nothing I could blow a whistle on yet, but in my bones I knew the stage was set for trouble and I felt low as I zoomed back to town. COMIGDoOoksnco 7 i