Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 65 — page 66: what you’re looking at

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

LEAVE He wandered through the city streets. The moving roads were crowded and flashing signs exploded advertising matter with the impact of a nova. There was noise and speed everywhere, a confused, milling throng of people seek- ing escape from themselves. It became worse each trip, Ward reflected. He had the feeling of being out of touch; everyone rushed past him as though time were running out. He found himself caught up in it, quickening his pace. Pressure built up in his brain. He needed a drink bad. A sign leered at him: THE DEVIL’S HOME. He went down three steps and pushed back the curtain. There was scented smoke in the air, and the monotonous sound of an electric orchestra. He went up to the bar, and said: ““Whisky!”’ The barman looked at his uniform. ‘*That stuff comes expensive, spaceman—guess you can af- ford it, though.” He disappeared, returning minutes later with a dust- covered bottle. He wiped it, 65 and poured out a_ small measure. “Leave the bottle,’ Ward said. : The bar was semi-circular with discreet cubicles built into the outside wail. It was harshly lit and the all-metal fittings gleamed with polish. A teen-age girl with a sweater taut across her bulbous figure approached him. ‘““Hi, spaceman,”’ she cried. ‘“Are you zoot?”’ “Zoot?” repeated Ward. He was never able to keep up with the current slang. The girl peered at him with glazed eyes. ‘**Yeah, zoot, brother!”” Not getting her own kind of answer, she turned away in disgust. “‘A dead-pan!”’ Ward poured more whisky inside him. The large tele screen over the bar suddenly hummed to life, accusing him: . ‘““You’re not getting enough out of life! Doctor Rotten- hammer’s Nerve Pills will treble your vitality. Get zoot, men, that’s the word for today!” The programme which fol- / comiclooks.cormn i