Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 43 — page 112: what you’re looking at

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

MARY HELL’S soften up the Q gun blast in the desert had replenished her coating of granite. She didn’t fool around with any of the customers. She served them their beer Earth style, or their whisky, and had supplies of the native product for those who'd picked up a taste for it, and for the Martians—remote de- scendants of the early colonists. Her staff was female, en- tirely. It was good business, for one thing; and for another, Mary had a soft heart for her own sex, planetary differ- ences notwithstanding. She had both Earth girls and Martian girls helping her behind the bar and at the tables, and any ot the troop- ers or crewmen who made out-of-the-way cracks about the Martians soon found themselves on the outside, propelled there by Mary her- self. As a result, Mary be- lieved, she’d built up a clien- tele of right guys. Rough, maybe, but right. Naturally there was a sour- ball or two among them. One was Lieutenant Jeffrey Cole. Mostly he did his drinking at the officer’s club on the post, among what he considered his own kind. But now and again he liked to go slumming, and at those times he visited Mary Hell’s. He brought his own bottle and he sat at a table by him- self, off to one side of the room. His presence made the regular customers uneasy. He usually took out a note- book and could be seen scribbling in it as he sipped his drink and looked out over the rest of the room. No one knew what he was doing—he might have been sketching, or just doodling—but the men were convinced that he was taking notes, to which he would refer when it came time to make up duty rosters and gig lists. Mary liked Lieutenant Jeffrey Cole even less than she liked his father. His Old Man was just that—the C.O. of the troopers. Colonel Carter Cole; Old Triple C., itl comicloooks.comn