Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 42 — page 119: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION shoulders. A dumb clod, this Meg, thought Robertshaw. “What is planned?’ he said. She looked hurt, then brightened like a child. ““Why, the dinner, Robertshaw!” “Oh that.” He lit his pipe. **You’ve planned it?” “Even to the wines!”’ She went to the bed, sat on the edge and began to pull up her hose. He smiled with tolerance. ““You’ve been very brave,” he said. ““Who’s coming?” She rubbed her chin. “The relatives, of course.’ She grinned and pinched his nose. “And your dearest friends, *“‘Well—there’s Hansotte, whom you haven’t seen in years...’ She teased him. “Then, there’s Mabel—your old school flame!’’ Ah,” “Then Dr. Bratton.” She shook her head. “You two were so close—a few years back.” Robertshaw was seized with sudden panic. “‘No one from the office?” he said. “Not a single one,” she smiled. “I know you hate those people.” “It doesn’t matter.” “Poor dear, you’re the one who’s brave.” She took his hand. “We'll make a party of it!” Robertshaw withdrew his hand and crossed the room. “Indeed we will, my darling!” Meg stood up when she heard him say it, walked over and took him by the shoulders. “I want to watch it, Robert- shaw,” she said. Restraining the distaste he felt, Robertshaw placed the sanctimonious kiss upon his’ wife’s forehead. ““You’re sweet,” he said. Robertshaw had chosen Kickoff House for the ribald touch, a little cottage hidden deep within the gardens of the Moribundus tract. He found it surrounded by young sap- lings and a prodigious growth of flowers, with quaint stone steps twisting safely to its door. His friends were wait- ing there, his relatives nearby. Like a garden party, thought Robertshaw, the way old friends stood so awkwardly about. It was their waxen smiles that bothered him, he felt. Then Aunt Phil began to cry; and his brother-in-law took him by the shoulder, conicloooks.comn