Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 46 — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION moment, young man. Where do you think you’re going?” And if he didn’t turn round, if he didn’t stop, then the voice would change in tone and the words would be: “Hey, you there! Stop!” He reached the lifts with the sweat sticking the clothes to his body. The little winking indicator lights told him that one lift was coming up and the other—luckily—stationary at his own floor. He pulled the doors open, stepped inside and pressed the toggle down the slot, having shut the doors behind him, to the notch marked ‘“‘First.”’ If he went straight down to the ground floor and tried to walk out through the main hallway he’d almost certainly be stopped by the clerks, who would have noticed him come in with the security men. Better to get to the first floor and then try and get out by some other method. He remembered other Ad- ministration buildings that he’d been in in the past. Generally the first floor con- tained the storerooms, and an outside freight lift ran from them down to ground level. And nearly all Admin. build- ings were, he knew, built along the same lines; if this one was no exception to the 4- { rule, and if his luck and his nerve held out, he might stand a chance of getting away. There were too many “‘ifs’’ in the scheme, he knew, but it seemed the only possible method of getting out of the building. And he had to get out! The lift stopped. Swiftly he mopped sweat off his face with a handkerchief. Be brave. Be natural. Act the part. He opened the door and stepped out, forcing his jelly legs to do his brain’s bidding. After perhaps two minutes of swift, though not too hasty, walking and searching with- out being challenged, he found that his guess had been a good one. The Psychocenire was similar in design to all the other Admin. buildings he had known—it had a generai store- room on its first floor and the storeroom had its own freight lift. He walked boldly across the room between plastoid crates and tiers of shelves towards a table at which a middle- aged man—presumably the ‘storekeeper—was sitting with an open magazine in front of him. “Ah,”’ said Patrick, as though he had at last found the person for whom he had been seeking. “Excuse me.” comicloooks.com