Astounding Science Fiction (UK Edition) — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

18 WILLIE By FRANK BELKNAP LONG The man had forgotien how he came there, what had gone before—and even where he was or belonged. And the half-savage people couldn’t tell him. THE valley had a harsh, scoured look, as though rain and erosion had removed every vestige of beauty from the clearness which filled it from brim to brim. To the man standing on the cliff edge gazing down, the domes of the valley city seemed harsh, too. Against the haggard face of the cliff wall opposite they looked like a cluster of toadstools in a nightmare—mo- tionless, shadowless and enveloped in a spectral negation of light. The silent watcher groaned and stared down over himself. A big man he was, darkly bearded, and with a jet-black jaguar skin encircling his loins. | What had happened to him? How had he— He could not even account for the rude stone hatchet which he was clasping in his calloused right hand. He had a feeling that the hatchet might be needed at any mo- ment, but where he had acquired it and under what circumstances he could not re- call. He did remember an argument with some- one who had opposed him, ‘and something powerful and dignified in himself that had silenced all opposition. Everything else was vague, nebulous, even a little terrifying. He remembered vaguely a gyrating shape of metal, the dull, slow throbbing of a revolv- ing mechanical something— No, it was more complicated than that. The something was only a small part of a larger and more terrifying memory-complex which smoldered just beneath the surface of his consciousness. Smoldered, but gave no light. His thoughts were a whirling chaos, and he could sense the stirring of something primitive in him- self which had no right to exist. But there was one betier memory— It was hard to understand why he, a man of the twenty-ninth century, should be wear- ing the skin of a jaguar and clasping a rude stone hatchet. But what tormented him - with an even more appalling immediacy was his certain knowledge that something was expected of him which required all of his courage and skill. He had thought himself alone, but sud- denly he was aware of stealthy movements behind him, and the feel of eyes on his broad back. 3 With a savage snarl he swung about, his fingers tightening on the handle of his hat- chet, his eyes pin points of hot purpose. The Prowler was a big brute, with shaven head and shoulders burned by the sun’s glare. He, too, was clasping a stone hatchet, and there was a maniacal fury in his stare. His scalp prickling, the man of the twenty-ninth century took a slow step back- ward, raised his arm and hurled his hatchet straight at his enemy’s skull. With a blood-curdling yell, the Prowler leaped sideways, but the hatchet seemed to follow him. With a sickening crunch it buried itself in the big brute’s skull, and toppled him forward upon his face. He struggled some on the ground, his tongue protruding and his head flopping back and forth on his long neck. He turned com- pletely about and almost succeeded in get- ting to his feet. Twice he raised himself, one eye open, the other closed, his stomach drooping like a blubbery sack. Then his limbs seemed to draw together under his body, and a dry, harsh rattle came from his throat. The man of the twenty-ninth century shuddered and stood for an instant staring grimly down at the glistening ribbon of Ccomiclboooks.c©