Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 66 — page 63: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION wasn’t the product of delirium. He could feel it hard beneath his feet, and that negro was real, and the walls, and the light. Wherever he was, he was really here, in the flesh, and if he was? What had happened back on that crowded street? A car could have hit him, thrown him down and cracked his skull so that things seemed not as they were. Tensely he examined his body, feeling his bones and muscles, then wearily dismissed the sugges- tion. He was healthy, in a strange place, and so sudden had been the transition that he felt no shock. Only a great wonder and a mounting sense of panic. Where was he? In a great room that was obvious. A place of smooth, hard material, with one wall a glowing expanse of light, and the roof a searing brilliance. Grimly, Sam began to walk about the strange place, strid- ing along the lighted wall, letting his fingers run over the smooth surface as he 62 searched for a crack which would betray the presence of a door. ; He didn’t find a door, but he found something else. People. Men and women, all sullen, all tired, all moving sluggishly over the smooth, once-clean floor. A pair of Chinese wandered past, their eyes glazed as if with opium. A: swarthy pigmy chattered at him from where he sat on a heap of tubular, cane-like reeds. Three sunken-eyed women staggered past as if drunk, reeling and swaying as they moved begrimed bodies over the floor. A bearded fakir whined at him and a brown islander with hair piled high on his scarred face strode past like a wooden statue. And one white man. He sat, head slumped on his chest, still dressed in shiny blue serge, his thin, grey hair rumpled and his eyes, as he stared at Sam, gleamed from behind the lenses of thick, horn-rimmed comicloooks.com