Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 54 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

THE LESSER BREED to speak with certainty, but I see no reason why you should not produce a healthy, normal child. Admittedly there have been a few unfortunate in- cidents; space conditions are, after all, abnormal—but that is no reason to occupy your mind with morbid fantasies. For your baby’s sake, and your own, I beg of you— please don’t.” He rose from his seat and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Just run along now. Keep up the exercises, and don’t forget to take the tablets as directed. I'll have another look at you in about ten days time. O.K.?” The woman returned his smile uncertainly. ““Thanks a lot, doctor. I’m sorry if I’ve been silly and scared, but people talk about these things so much.” ! The door closed behind the ripening figure. Admans’ sharp, grey eyes narrowed and he ran his thin hands through his corn-coloured hair. People talk .. . This was one helluva job! He walked back to the desk and pressed a button on the intercom. “Major Tutin, here!’’ snapped the precise voice of the administration officer. The medic’s face was grim. “Hallo, Tutin; this is Admans. I’ve got to see you right away.” “Sorry, old man, can’t be done. Absolutely up to the neck in paper work. Make it some other time, eh?” The veneer of flippancy was thin; beneath it Admans detected a note of irritation. ‘““No!” The medic’s nor- mally soft voice rose in pitch. “The paper work can wait— this is important. ’m coming straight over... And you’d better see me!”’ He slammed the cutoff switch as Tutin began to protest. Reaching behind the desk, he picked up the can of radiography plates and walked quickly out of the room. The door of the admin office closed with a crash. Major James Tutin, seconded from World Police to take disci- plinary charge of the Astra- venturer project, glared at the compact figure of the little medic. His dark, crew-cut hair and pencil thin mous- tache bristled indignation. © comiclooks.conrn