Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 47 — page 123: what you’re looking at

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

« h , Wha \ ra _< y : AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION **Ah!”’ The breath left him. His hair bristled. There, through the windscreen, the bridge of his dreams! A millisecond later he jammed his foot down. Pulled the handbrake. Locked the wheels. The car screech-stopped, nosing onto the bridge: In a flash Mr. Trinter was out, behind it, sweating and shaking. He laughed afterwards. Brown bridge, not black. Spanning railway, not river. One person watched, stand- ing fifty yards beyond the bridge. Big, quietly-dressed, the sun high-lighting his pol- ished cranium, he peered to- wards the car. Self-conscious, Mr. Trinter went back and slipped behind the steering wheel. When he looked through the windscreen, the man had vanished. He drove across into Llan- currig. The High Street rose before him, steep, shop-lined. Double-fronted. “The Fashionable”’ was on his left. Pulling into the curb, he got out. | 122 The big man with the polished cranium emerged, looking concerned. He stared over the opposite roof tops. Mr. Trinter stared too, Behind nestling habitations up rose barrier mountain. About cloud-enveloped summit, lightning flickered, thunder rolled. Mr. Trinter shivered, despite muggy mid- day heat. He met the big man’s solemn look. “Pretty black up there.” “Aye. There’s a storm in the mountains. Trouble brew- ing for someone.” Raindrops beat a smart tattoo. Sunshine was wiped off the street. Mr. Trinter cleared his throat. ““Mr.—er—Grubbiner ?”’ The big man cocked a last troubled look upwards. “That’s right,” he nodded. ““Comeon inside, Mr. Trinter.”’ The shop had an air, Spaciousness. Dimness. Gen- tility. The faded elegance proper to a high-class pro- vincial establishment. The staff were at lunch, so Mr. Trinter had shop and proprietor to conmiclooks.comn