Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 46 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION house till your—er—Brown- eyes returned ?” “Good Heavens, no,” I told him. “‘She never got back till after eleven—and IJ had to be at work at seven next day.” **So your Doctor could say that you left as usual, and he would not be expected to know your future movements. People do disappear from your world, don’t they?” “But what about my effect on the future?” He smiled, rather sadly. “You, like a million more of your age, will have no effect at all on the future in a general sense. Remember, the Final War has yet to come, and your Future Probability line, like so many others, ends right there.”’ “Oh 6 “Events,” he went on, “‘like to follow systematically when they can, but often there is a slip. Sufficient slips and the whole programme has to be overhauled—usually by a war, which irons out the incon- sequences. Since the time- travel era, we’ve been able to remove that cause for war, I’m thankful to say.”’ Well, I suppose I should have been overjoyed at the thought of getting “‘outside”’ again, but... I’ve got a smashing job 96 with bags of travel—into the past only; there is no future in this game. I’ve a nice little pre-fab where I—ahem, we— live. And the food—it’s out of this world. Literally. Have you ever tasted Martian Pear? Or had Ki-Ki fruit from Venus as afters? Then there’s this war. No, I’m much better off in here, and as far as I could see the only way to stay was to doa spot of sequence altering of my own. This was in November, and I didn’t—or won’t—meet Browneyes until the _ staff dance in early January. Stop that, and I don’t meet the | Doc. If I don’t meet the Doc I don’t do a time-trip, so I— the real I, me—can stay here for good. If “I? am not working at P.P. in January, then. “I” don’t go to the staff dance, but how. .? ‘I got the answer the very next day. June and I often amused ourselves by yelling in people’s ears, and watched the look on their faces as they turned to see where the—to them—faint whisper came from. And that gave me an idea. The next Wednesday even- ing I went over to the digs at Shepherds Bush and, as I comiclbooks.conrn