Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 42 — page 115: what you’re looking at

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

_ — es AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION still not wanting to believe it. It’s every man’s privilege, he’d replied, and the State Provides a pension. “You know I’ve given it thought,” he said, half- heartedly, poking in disinter- ested fashion at his scrambled eggs. And when she’d asked him why, he had replied that he’d had enough. One could talk “that way to Meg. That was why he hated her—why one always hates the kind of person who can suffer quietly. They were a great irony, this .type. She would watch him die, in duty and in loyalty, and she would not question why, not really. Meg would just accept. Robertshaw feleased his thoughts and looked up. Meg was standing there now, the coffee pot held limply in her hand. She was a beautiful woman, really, and quite pitiful when she began to cry. She dropped the coffee pot against the table, causing the stacked toast to flip and fall to the floor, the brown squares of bread sliding drunkenly across the shiny surface at their feet like the discs of a shuffie-board game, *“Robertshaw,” she said, “Oh, Robertshaw.” 114 Mr. Gestorben arrived at the Robertshaw household nine o’clock prompt the fol- lowing morning—a little man in a black suit, with narrow lapels and just a suggestion of shoulders. The little man pulled up the bright chintz-patterned chair next to the sunny window and opened his _ briefcase. ““You’re doing the sensible thing,” he said.- He smiled automatically, the white veins at his throat stretching with a slight tautness. When he spoke, it grated—like a sing- song, with a jingle. ‘‘Mori- bundus Brothers never sleep,” he said. “They wait to serve you—1in time of sorrow.’’. Robertshaw sighed. ‘Yes, I know,” he said. The little man seemed dis- appointed, even angry. He snapped the papers in his hand. ‘‘Have you decided on accommodations yet?” he asked. Robertshaw leaned back in his big leather chair and began to clean his fingernails. He watched the little man from the corner of his eyes. They really were a farce, these pompous puds, he thought. “The most reasonable,” he said. Mr. Gestorben made a note. commcloooks.com