Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 65 — page 41: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE days in all the sand, and then he had found the typewriter, and now he was working at it. He had a vague idea of writing something to be found alongside his dead bones. He was trying to type a message on scraps of paper found in his pocket, because he was going to die of thirst and he might be found someday, dead. He bashed at the keys, and they grated against a dead ribbon. He imprinted again, again on the same space, and a faint impression of the letter grew upon the paper. A series of aborted letters indented without colour. Oh, bloody typewriter! He became aware of the sudden droning in the bare blue sky, and a few yards from him a gondola crumpled amid a tearing and spraying sand cloud, writhing for a few moments after its disas- trous impact. A young man staggered, spluttering, from the vehicle, a torn, dirty cloak trailing behind him. ““A transter. Have you a transter?”’ he demanded, wip- ing the tears from his eyes. 40 FICTION “No,” said Mailston, per- plexed. *“‘No? Then how in the name of Praldrock do you reckon to have got here?” The young man—he couldn’t have been above eighteen— glowered. Then he saw the typewriter. His face paled with stricken fury. ) “‘Lord, you’re mad!” he accused. Fm not He struck Mailston across the face. ““Moving parts! It has moving parts! No wonder you’re skulking in the desert. You'll have your eyes torn out for this!’’ He turned, and studied the faint characters. “What is this drivel?” he asked. Then: “‘No! It would be disgusting to show curiosity over a machine.”’ Mailston, feeling feeble amid his confusion, felt his face. The visitor from the skies gazed at him with high contempt. “‘I’m taking you to Centre Valley for trial,” he announced. ‘“‘Where’s your transter ?” “Trial ? What have I done?” “Using machinery. You know that. You're a traitor and a hexetic.” conicloooks.comn