Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 42 — page 117: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION It would be a laugh when he saw Muerto! Angelus Muerto was a dark- skinned man, with the look of sunsets at Capri about him, or _ the shadowed canals of a Venice night. But there was no humour in his eyes. He spoke with the broad, flat dialect of Santa Tomas. ““By me, it’s purely a busi- ness deal,” he said. ‘“‘What’s my cut in the loot?” Robertshaw had lit a cigar- ette and shot the man a crafty look. “‘A third,” he said. For hours now, this had been theconversation : Robert- shaw fighting for two-thirds the payroll, Muerto insisting on a half. *“Look——-”” Muerto said, “what other establishment would do it?” He frowned. “It’s too risky!” Robertshaw leaned back in a Moribundus Brothers’ slum- ber chair and gave Muerto a good long look. It was worth it, and he knew it. Dolarita and he would still have a small fortune left. Anyway, he’d screw Muerto too—what dif- ference did a promise make? Robertshaw coughed his smoker’s cough, and leaned back now, in the soft, pink cushions. He’d try his pipe, 116 for a longer smoke. Muerto waited, as usual very patient. Robertshaw thought again of Dolarita: she was such a doll! He remembered the night he’d worked overtime with Dol- arita—she had wanted to get “comfortable’—and how comfy can you get! How he loved those bare midriffs, the way she walked. Like a sex machine, he thought. “You're right, Muerto. I’ve been unfair.”” He stood up and crossed the room. “One half the take,’ he said. Angelus Muerto was. pleased. “Any time,” he said. Robertshaw shook his head and moved to the leaded window. Moribundus Bro- thers was a lofty place—which is to say, like a big barn. It covered many acres. Through the window, and across the lawns, Robertshaw saw an endless vista of sepulchres, each one more monstrous and grotesque. Mortuaries and cemeteries had not changed there—even in the Modern Age, it was tradition, and accepted for what it was. Man is very vain, thought Robertshaw. “I wonder if they'll remember me,” he said, “Do you care?’ Muerto said, picking at his teeth. comiclooks.corn