Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 51 — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION The harsh electric light of the cabin was subtle torture after the black emptiness of space. Three days of it, the madness growing inside him and turning to hatred. It would be all right soon, he told himself. It would be all right once he saw Earth and knew he was going back to Margaret. Nothing else mattered. He listened to the low hum of the atomic motor, the ticking of the chronometer, Peters’ steady breathing, the beating of his own heart. They must be getting close. Suppose Earth was. there, dead ahead, and they never saw it? The end would come quickly, with a crater their memorial... Blood trickled down his chin where his teeth had clamped on the loose flesh of his lip. Peters began to curse, very softly. Now, now, now, said For- man over and over inside his head, it must come now! Suddenly, brilliantly, Earth showed in the porthole. Peters 70 gave a yell of triumph and the tension flashed to zero, dis- charging like a condenser. Forman’s eyes watered... through the blur he saw blue- green and brown ochres, white clouds scudding over the land. “We've done it—we’re back!” He was weak, limp as a wrung-out rag, trembling. Peters said: “Strap down, Larry. I’m firing the retarding jets.” The invisible hand thrust him into the padding and a waterfall of sound drummed in his ears. The Earth turned and he began to recognise oceans and continents. Nearer rushed the ground, swooping to meet them. Over the Chan- nel, Forman noticed a three- masted sailing ship. The south coast, Salisbury plain... “Where the devil is the firing range?’ Peters howled. Forman wondered at the wild look of the countryside. Roads were few, houses scarce, people... what was that? A stage-coach? The. houses looked old. No, that wasn’t comiclbooks.cormn