Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 47 — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

ME Pe, ~~ AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION He lashed out then with his feet. Rules ? Don’t worry about rules. Get away! Hide! He ached for a damp, warmly dark hole in the rich brown earth where he could crawl and curl up and forget. His feet sharp on shins. Yells. Orders and counter orders. *“Hold on, Marshal!” “Oh. My legs!”’ *““Let the little blighter go. We can always catch him again.” The corridor, long and cool, the tiles a clean quick pain of ice against his fevered forehead. Quietness. The Head’s door. A knock, timid, fearful, defiant. “Come in.” A deep carpet, a desk that was as high as a mountain and as darkly brown as the oaks in the quad. ““Ah, Brown, stand there, lad. And what’s been hap- pening to you, eh? Speak up! Speak up!” ‘Nothing, sir.’’ The carpet, the red threads running over the blue, and the black jump- ing in and out like a cat. “Nothing? Well, then, ~ / 0 straighten your tie. And tell Matron to look at that black eye.” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” “Now, Brown,’ briskly. *“You haven’t been very happy at school, have you?” The Head’s deep-set eyes piercing him through pince-nez. A quizzical, sympathetic look that opened arms of comfort to him, arms which he reso- lutely refused to accept. He searched the Head’s lined face for a sympathy he did not want to find, an under- standing that would expose his own weakness. “fT get along all right, sir.” “Well now. That’s good. Fine. I asked you in, Brown, to tell you that I expect an extra specially good result in the exams. tomorrow.” The Head fidgeted with important- looking papers, his hands like the claws of a mystic, pre- paring a sacrifice for the flames. “I’ve heard the boys calling you a name, haven’t I, Brown? D’you remember what that was?” Did he remember? Orfie. Would he ever ferget? conmicloooks.conn : : 4