Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 56 — page 74: what you’re looking at

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

It came from out of the blue, appropriately, for it was a— BLUE ROSE by RON PAUL nothing like it. A rose—its petals half open— hung outwards from the top of his rose bush. A slight breeze swept through the country garden and the bloom swayed gently. It looked beautiful; a perfect English rose. But its colour was a pale blue! Gardening was a hobby to old Harry. Since his retirement to this country cottage he was always in the garden. Each day, when lunch ended, he would light his pipe and rise. “Just going to the garden, May,” he would tell his wife, then slowly wander out. Such a quiet, peaceful, restful life. The blue rose swayed in the breeze. Harry’s old head followed it—fasci- nated. To and fro... to and fro... A tiny bird fluttered down. It settled on the rose. The bird squeaked shrilly. It flashed by his eyes and landed a few yards away. Blindly, it soared into the air only to blunder into trees and bushes. It hopped about the tall grass flapping its wings. He tried to catch it, but it flew at his face, pecking at his fiesh until he was forced to beat it off. For a moment wings beat the air furiously. Then, silence. He uncovered his eyes. The bird had gone. He stared at the rose. The flower itself was the same, but around it was a haze of richer blue; a shimmering haze that seemed to pulse tremulously. Old Harry turned and hurried to the nearest “phone booth. ()= HARRY STARED. HE HAD SEEN @ The scientists arrived soon after. The flower still danced in the breeze to mock those who tried to reason its existence. For hours they surveyed it, photographed it, made notes and here departed. More men arrived; they, too, left. Night came. In the darkness the rose glowed and everything around reflected the peculiar blue. The following day a shiny car arrived. A crowd had already collected about the rose. Paul Dunlay, from the Kenstan Laboratory, got out. A wait- ing photographer flashed his camera. A reporter approached him. “I’m from the Daily Observer. 1 wonder——” He pushed by. “Not now. I know nothing about this.” A stout man came to greet him. “Carter,” said Dunlay, “glad you’re They threaded their way through the people. They reached the rose. *‘What the devil is it?’ asked Paul. The fat man chuckled. ““They sent you to find out.” ‘““When was it discovered ?” ‘Sometime yesterday. The owner of that cottage found it. It had some peculiar effect on a bird, so he sent for us. The old man says there was a blue haze encircling the rose. As you see, there isn’t now. No tests have yet been made. As you were placed in charge, we waited for your instructions. We had it photographed and copied.” “All right, we'll make a few tests now.” Using a pair of tweezers, Dunlay separated a petal from the main flower. The petal dropped lightly: It lay on the grass—colour unchanged; still the same peculiar blue. A mongrel dog nosed its way through the crowd. It scampered to Dunlay and wagged its tail. He sighed and caught the collar. “Who owns this dog?’? No one answered. The dog strained and got away. It saw the petal and growled. Ears swept back, its nose bent cautiously and sniffed. - o PIF poe af comiclooks.com