Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 44 — page 26: what you’re looking at

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

THE LEVER AND pany in the officers’ mess, in- stead of that of the gaudy and quarrelsome—and often spacesick—society of the royal entourage. In such a perilous and un- stable society as ours, I was a sort of human poison; to be seen in my company, to ex- change a glance or even to share a laugh with me tended to lessen one’s chances of promotion, but my skipper on this. voyage was a young man of my own age, Karan by name, who loved his job and his ship, and admired an efficient officer, and cared for nothing else in the whole breadth of space. He made me welcome, and the rest of the mess followed suit. That voyage was a happy episode in my grim and friendless existence. The royal ship and its escorting vessels made their orbit on Argol, and dropped one by one through the thick clouds that always shrouded the planet to their landing at the spaceport. After being relieved of my duties, I went to my cabin, shed my black naval uniform, and changed into civilian attire. I felt as gaudy as a rainbow bird, although my taste in clothes was sober by comparison with most of the court. THE FULCRUM The ship’s company gave me a royal salute. Captain Karan, who until now had called me Mister Astrogator, now stood at attention as I went to the air lock, and ad- dressed me as Lord Prince. I shook hands with him. “You are a fortunate man, Captain,” I told him. “You have your ship, which is a sort of kingdom for you.” He understood very well how I was feeling just then. ““My father served your father, my lord,” he replied. Standing stiffly, he smacked his hand hard on the hilt of his sword. “Don’t be a romantic young fool,’”’ I told him in a low voice. “If a remark of that sort were overheard, it might cost you your com- mand. I went out through the air lock, followed by James carry- ing my bags, and into the hot, steamy and windless atmos- phere of Argol. After the procession from the spaceport, the cheering crowds, the walk up the palace steps between rows of guards —squat, dark-faced men with a heavy, rather short type of blast gun—after the reception, bowings, salutings, anxious shufflings to ensure one was comicbooks.com ™