Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 47 — page 51: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION at formation station three feet from your own wingtip? And when it is there, float- ing as though in suspended levitation, you marvel at its complexity and at the power beneath its deceptively slim nacelles. A flying machine capable of speeds limited only by the friction barrier; a recording instrument capable of computing a hundred items of meteorological knowledge —from barometric pressure to the ratio of oxygen to nitrogen in the area through which it is passing—and of transforming them into mechanical energy capable of applying instant compensation without the pilot having to lift a finger; a machine capable of sustained flight in any weather or in total darkness; a flying search- light, a broadcasting and receiving station, and a flying gun platform all in one—that is what you see trembling at your wingtip as pockets slip over its control surfaces. Its pilot never takes’ his eyes from your wingtip, except for briefly snatched glances at his instrument panel—until you signal the break. Then he lifts a gauntlet-clad hand 50 and grins, His booster aper- tures belch shimmering heat. The nose lifts and the machine hurtles away with blue-white pinpoints of flame spearing the air behind it. With your own velocimeter showing nine hundred, still it streaks away from you. Diminishing in a matter of seconds to first a speck and then an unbeliev- able dream. With sudden pride you realise that his machine and your own are the same, and that he is not a god, but a man—like yourself. You are both members of the same breed; the soft, pulpy, ill- équipped predecessors of what? Who raised themselves from the slime and became lords of earth—and who are still evolving; but oh, how slowly... In sudden respect and af-. fection you run your hand over the smooth belinium surface of the control column and open the taps. The burble from behind becomes a vibrant hum and you feel yourself pressed against the back of the seat as she surges forwards and upwards. Scared? Of course we were scared, some- comicloooks.con) 4