Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 42 — page 113: what you’re looking at

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

He was so young to die, but, after all—he’d signed the papers! In Time of Sorrow Robertshaw looked at his wife, across the breakfast table, and wondered why he didn’t love her any more. He’d thought about it for weeks now: What was wrong with Meg? ‘He watched the young woman in the fresh morning dress and knew he had the answer. It was simply because Meg was old-fashioned and had loved him. She was just too sweet. He sank down in his chair, the dull white kitchen chair, the wrinkled pyjamas pulling tight about his legs. Robert- shaw ran a hand through wildly tousled hair, tried sud- denly to rub the sleep from aching eyes. Meg was too good, he thought; a woman who saw wrong in nothing. And she loved all things, and all equally. Like “My Last Duchess,”’ she smiled at every- one. Robertshaw considered. This was what was wrong with 112 by LEONARD PRUYN Meg—there was no give and take. Only give. There was no fire. Robertshaw added up the accounting sheets of one man’s life: three days now till New Year’s, seven miserably affectionate: years with Meg, still a payroll clerk in our Lord’s year 244C, and the two big things that had happened to him. He, Robertshaw, had fallen in love with the most ravishing night club singer of © the forties, the irresistible and gorgeous Dolarita. What was more, this Dolarita was full of - fire. And she loved the name, Robertshaw. The second big event? Robertshaw had decided to throw an Old Lang Syne. ““Have you finished the guest list, dear?’? Meg said, handing him his breakfast plate. “The important ones.”’ He scratched his head. ““No— you handle that.” CommiclOOlkS.COmn,