Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 65 — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

HEART and wet warmth. Thunder rolled deep in the mountains, and the moths and junebugs smashed themselves against the front porch light in the senseless immolation of sum- mer insects everywhere on Earth. We sat on the porch, watching the heat lightning glow up in the distance, listening to the summer thun- der storm gather itself for the rain that would come lashing quickly across'the valley around midnight to lay a brief cooling hand on our summer-hot foreheads, cool- ness that fades too quickly into swelter. We listened to the radio— too hot to sit inside and watch TV—and the old record- ings of John McCormack wove Irish heartbreak in our minds, filling our throats with a wrenching nostalgia for something that had never been ours, but still belonged to every human being. A sad loveliness of melody so spirit- enchanting that not to iden- tify oneself with his Irish rapture seemed non-human _ and unthinkable. The people next door walked 61 ACHE down the street, slowly, for her legs were never capable of Earth-striding—she who had strode free swinging across the red sands—he, matching his Earth-born vigour to her slow, painful pace. They stopped for a moment before our house, caught by the music, the pool of light. “Come up and sit down,” we urged. Neighbourly. Friendly—a night for neigh- bourliness and friendliness. A soft, warm, easing, relaxing night for us—a smothering, gasping night of hideousness for her, we knew; and the songs of the Irish tenor seemed to echo her sadness and need for home. Oh, I will take you home, Kathleen, To where your heart will feel no pain. He turned to her and spoke so gently, softly, more ten- derly than I had ever heard him speak—for he had a brisk gay voice that filled rooms and carried across spaces—and even though ier name was Rhoda: “I will, Kathleen.” comicloooks.com