Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 46 — page 43: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION walked the streets of the upper Levels whenever he could get away from his own home, walking and seeking with a great ache and a great loneliness inside him that pulsed and throbbed like some strange secondary heartbeat, deep within. But the days changed to weeks and the weeks to months and the great flowing onward of time dulled down the pulse of grief to dimness, to pallid echoings of what it once had been. He went to the Labour Level less and less, then, and when he did it was only to think of Margaret and hear her voice again in memory, and walk the streets where once, so short a time before, they had strolled together. It was then, and only then, that the old grief and the old heart- break would return and he would mourn his loss as only those can mourn who love and lose for the very first time. And it was not of the lifting spoon and the strange old man that he thought, but only of Margaret and the way her hair had shone and the way her voice had sounded. The bond that had held them so close together and had enabled each to understand the other became, in his mind, trans- formed from a thing of strangeness into simply a thing of love. It had been their love that had held them in that tight web of mutual under- standing, or so it seemed to Patrick, looking back. The real strangeness of their union became lost in the folds of memory of Margaret herself, and the incident of the lifting spoon and the gaunt old man in the tattered coverall who had offered to give either of them help if ever they should need it—these things, all of them, faded out from his mind because they were so much less than the memory of lost love. Faded out, until... He came out of it with the girl’s voice still in his ears, faint, now, as she walked down the corridor outside, saying: “This way, Captain.” The voice that was like Mar- garet’s voice. The voice that had sparked the fuse of memory that had led, through realms of unconsciousness, to that particular bombshell of remembrance. He jumped to his feet and steod, dazed and bewildered, in the waiting room. He'd found it! He’d remembered the incident right through from start to finish, the comiclbooks.corn