Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 66 — page 136: what you’re looking at

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

THE CREEP ship stayed with them. Harry’s bar was located in a none too salubrious quarter, and the odds against finding a doctor’s surgery in the vicinity were high. The odds against finding one where the doctor was at home were frightening. But their luck held. Lena discovered the house with the brass plate on the railings outside. They had directed their search to the west of the sphere, away from the sparrow, and they had gone almost as far along one of the better-class streets as Sam dared. He ran across the street in answer to her summons. He looked at the brass plate doubtfully. Sometime, some long ago sometime, the plate had been polished with pride and regularity so that the embossed lettering was all but lost in the worn brass. From the various shades of bronze overlying the letters it was apparent that the polishing of the plate had been neglected for years. The smaller letters, reading M.B., 135 Ch.B., were the easiest to- decipher. It was only with difficulty that they made out the doctor’s name above the initials. Lena rang the doorbell and waited with crossed fingers and - closed eyes. When the door creaked open in response to her third ring, she didn’t dare open her eyes until a voice wheezed: ““Well?”’ “Thank God,” she sighed. She asked the old man at the door: “‘Doctor Sullevan? Doctor Frank M. Sullevan?”’ The eyes looking into hers sagged in their lower lids with the weight of past sorrows. A lot of white— yellow-white—was visible above the irises. The eyes flicked nervously and warily. “T’m Sullevan,’ the old man admitted. He made an effort to tidy his stained, rumpled suit, and combed his straggly white hair with grimy fingers. ““What is it? I don’t practise now, you know. Not since———”” His voice tailed off in reverie. “You practised once,” said comicloooks.com