Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 66 — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

SLEEVE OF CARE wife and work. A dull type. No guts.” Fact: Gambled a little, cautious, timid, conventional. From the office to the library, where a mannish woman stared at the photo- graph, flipped a stack of cards, and frowned at the list of book borrowings. ‘Pretty much of a pattern. You can tell a lot from what a man reads, you know. Moore and Plato, Homer and Wells, Sabatini and Clarke. Kinsey? Certainly not! Mr. Johnson wasn’t that kind of a man.” Fact: Intelligent—at least in his public literature. His private? The postmanshookhis head. “Few letters. Nothing in plain seal. No magazines, parcels or foreign mailings. Photographs? Not that I know of.” Fact: Little outside contact. And so on. Talks with curious neighbours who licked mental lips as they scented scandal. Talks with the local doctor, the police, the man who sold newspapers and the 93 one who sold cigarettes. Talks with the people who served behind counters, kept bar, punched tickets. A row of faces, each with masked eyes and guarded tongue. Dozens of them. And at the end? Nothing. Sam grunted as he unlocked the door of the small house he had so far managed to keep from the jaws of his creditors. Tiredly, he eased himself in- side and sighed with relief as he slipped the shoes from his aching feet. Madge called to him from the kitchen where she hummed as she worked with iron and heaps of freshly laundered clothing. “Sam?” “Yes, dear?” “Hungry ?”” ““No. I ate out.” He relaxed against the worn upholstery. ““Where’s Tony?” “Playing in the garden.” Madge wiped her hands as she came into the living room. ““You’re late today.” ““A case.” He didn’t explain coniicloooks:. con