Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 52 — page 120: what you’re looking at

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

JOHN BROWN’S BODY to his tractor. He spoke into a microphone: “‘March.”’ Number one million, two hundred and seventy thousand and seven marched with the others. Red sand extended to the horizon and beyond; it was a monotonous landscape. An hour passed. Two. Then there were dunes bordered by some limp vegetation, and hollows . .. the Martians lay in the hollows. Henderson gave the order: ** Kill!” He slumped back in the driving seat of his tractor and unscrewed the top of a flask. He drank to forget. He was too young to appreciate why a whole race must be wiped out. Number one million, two hundred and seventy thousand and seven fired his gun. The air crackled with discharge, grew bright with a blinding brilliance. A smell of charred flesh rose from the hollows beyond the dunes. Martians, he thought, kill the Martians! They were like the targets he had destroyed in the barracks, except that they moved. It was more fun shoot- ing at a moving target. His first kill gave him a thrill; after that, the excitement mounted. His blood ran hot with the lust to kill. He had 119 been conditioned for murder and he enjoyed himself. The soldiers moved in with guns blazing. There was no opposition, for the men were fighting Earth’s armies. Here were only the females and young. It was not war, but massacre. Henderson put down his flask when he saw that it was over. “Form ranks,” he ordered. **March.” On the way back, a dust storm caught them. The trac- tor bogged down. The men stood and breathed Martian sand; and, under cover of the storm, a Martian army surprised them. Number one million, two hundred and seventy thousand and seven saw his comrades dropping about him—and wondered why. He had heard no order to rest. Half-buried by sand, the windows covered over, Henderson never saw - the Martians strike... Number one million, two hundred and seventy thousand and seven watched them at- tack, not knowing what to do. Scores of them, hundreds of them, with little guns that went “‘ping!’? He would have liked to join in, but he knew he must wait for orders. A very small and angry comiclooks.conn