Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 46 — page 129: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION “You are welcome aboard out ship, Terrestrians.”’ The voice was thin and fluting, meticulous in detail of enunciation, and strangely at variance with the large frame. Conversation began; ethics and art, the interdependability of intelligence and matter, the essential unity of all forms of life. Gulsworth was in his element. Smoothly and effort- lessly he guided the conversa- tion, bridging difficult gaps, skirting alien conceptions, and gradually working nearer and nearer to the inevitable point. Bradley risked little beyond the conventional, pinning his faith in the ability of his con- voy to get there first. That still remained the most important factor. Bulmont, anxiously inar- ticulate, tried to make out by radiating tolerant good humour. Time and again he tried to make a contribution to the discussion, only to be forestalled by Gulsworth’s suavity, or Bradley’s quick recognition of an opportunity for a stock phrase. For all that, Bradley was uncomfortably aware that Bulmont was get- ting more than his fair share of attention, particularly from the smaller Clotid. It was im- possible to tell what they were 128 thinking; maybe it was just curiosity. Suddenly and unexpectedly Bulmont cracked. His face, bereft of its smile, paled suddenly, then flushed again as he came to his feet. “Look, Clotids!”’ His voice was hoarse and squeaky. “I don’t understand it. All this talk. I’m just plain human and dumb!” He fumbled with his brief- case, fingers podgily inexpert. **Take a look at this, and let me get out of here! Here it is. Qualities, analysis and every- thing.” He produced a sheaf of papers, then looked around, isolated by his temerity. Chok- ingly he inserted a finger under his collar. “Sorry, but there it is. Can’t help my reactions.” He was floundering now, waving his small hands agitat- edly as he made for the door. The Clotids remained im- mobile, their withdrawal ob- vious. Or was it? Bradley thought quickly, then rose, placed his papers carefully at the side of Bulmont’s, bowed and left. That was the smartest thing to do, back both horses. Outside, Bulmont turned to him. He was trembling vio- lently, eruptively, beneath his comicbooks.con