Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 48 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION This last grey dawn of his life had come, but . he paid no attention to the light which came through the window of his cell. He wrote quickly, striving to finish his testament. He was strangely tranquil. At last the final word was written. He laid down the blunt stub of- pencil and riffled the sheets of paper. He looked up as the door of the cell was unlocked and two guards appeared. One of them stretched out his hand and grasped the sheets of paper. “This will be destroyed,” he said. As the guard set fire to the laboriously written testament the prisoner’s dull eyes con- tracted slightly. That was the only sign of the ember of rage in his mind. “Get up,” said the other suard. “ The time has come for your death. Follow us.” He prodded the _prisoner’s ragged body with the snout of his hand-weapon. Wearily the shrunken man 6 rose to his feet. He did not spare the bare cell a final glance. Already his mind was filled with a shifting gallery of faces, the faces of his friends. How few they were! Yet he was fortunate in that day and generation to have had so many. The prisoner walked down the corridor, flanked by his euards. He did not see them. He saw only the faces in his memory. The jolt of a guard’s elbow in_ his ribs roused him to the fact that a high officer of the Fighters stood before him. His tired eyes focussed on the crisp, drab uniform of the little man. The small face swam slowly into his con- sciousness. Even on_ the threshold of death he felt his pulse quicken in recognition. The high cheek bones, the cold eyes and the cruel mouth were unmistakable. The prisoner had seen this officer’s image many times. This was Takato, Marshal of the Fighters, the greatest killer of the age. conniclooks.coman)