Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 43 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION “DREAMS, EH?” said the psychiatrist genially. ‘What sort of dreams?” He was of medium height; dark, with receding hair, and excessively white, long hands which he flexed and clasped incessantly. His skin had a curious waxen quality, like a mask, but there was nothing mask-like in his quick and ever-ready professional smile. August Michel regarded him with distaste. “Nightmares,” he _ said flatly. ““Nightmares that make it so terrible to go to sleep that I don’t—three nights out of four. That can’t go on.” “Obviously,” agreed the psychiatrist, allowing a hint of worried sympathy to creep into his voice. Michel could imagine the neatly ordered precision behind the waxen brow—“Take one part worry and three of sympathy. Mix well. Add to voice.” “Can you describe them?” “They start, so far as I can tell, the moment I doze off—as soon, in fact, as my will relaxes,” said August Michel. “It’s as if I were doing something normal and ordinary, in the everyday course of events. They are much more perfect and cir- cumstantial than any other dreams I ever had. “But as time goes on, things begin to happen. One of them is that my surroundings alter. Quite subtly, you un- derstand—as if they were sculptured in wax and were melting into obscene shapes as soon as they are out of my range of vision, and didn’t quite change back fast enough to avoid my noticing it.” He shut his eyes, shuddering as he recalled the vivid details that crowded his dreams. “Then someone is there. It may be any of the quite ordinary people I pass, or talk to, or work with. People don’t alter, you see, even if they happen to the person. That isn’t clear, I know, but it’s the best I can do. I know when he’s there, but I don’t know who he is—he may even be a woman sometimes. It’s as if I feel his presence conmmicloooks.comnn)