Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 46 — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION Now, of course, he would get his reward—the long, long sleep which he desired so very much. And what was that? Why, death. Naturally. He was on his knees, beat- ing his fists against the wall that separated him from the light and the life that existed in the world from which it now seemed that he was cut off forever and forever. On the ground beside him, lying where he had dropped it, the multi-purpose torch flared its orange flame up to illu- minate his weepings and his sobbing entreaties, and the flailing of his arms. And the whispering night- mare voices fied away, aghast at this spectacle, despite themselves. Then there was only the voice of this young and terri- fied man, alone in the blocked tunnel, his cries echoing and re-echoing through the long darkness, back and back. *T don’t want to die! Oh, please I don’t want this to be the end! No, no, not even if I sleep. Not even if there isn’t any more pain or crawling along. Don’t let me die. Help me! Help me! Old man. Whittam. You said I could come to you. You told me. 1495, Fourth Level. You told me that. Your address. Old 56 man. Whittam. Help. 1495. Fourth Level. Must get there. Escape *.° oe - The echoes continued after the voice itself, the screaming, crying voice, had ceased al- together. The echoes bloomed like ghost-sound flowers; they bloomed and bounced from wall to wall in their eerie passing down the long length of the tunnel. And then they were gone. On the ground Patrick Vane’s torch continued to burn and flicker, and thus cast a little light in a place that was otherwise very dark and very silent. And which was also— empty. “Take it easy, now.” ““Huh? What? Where ?”’ “Just relax yourself.” The bed was soft and com- fortable, and the sheets were crisp and white, like the tiles in the chalet kitchen that his mother was always polishing. He stopped the train of thought abruptly. Not any more. No more being afraid. He raised his eyes to those of the old man who stood by his bed. “How are you feeling?” Mr. George Whittam asked him, smiling down, looking very much the same as he had done on that previous oc- comicloooks.comn