Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 66 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

THE OLD FIRM HE OFFICE DOOR WAS A single twenty-foot block of clear plastic that be- came penetrable in layers as you walked through it, im- perceptibly flushing with soft rose pink in unison with majestic choral music lauding the services of Vaun and Calshot. In other words, the door was a heap of antiquated junk. “Our last customer nearly got caught in it,” Calshot grumbled. *“You mean our first.” Vaun punched the “finish” button on his pocket comptometer. ‘“‘What’s the difference?” “Cheer up, Cal. Vaun and Calshot, Galactic Consultants, aren’t broke yet.” He laughed as though the possibility were remote as ya spiral nebula. “‘We’ve this character from Mizrab IV to see this after- noon, and my calculations tell me——” Calshot grunted around his filthy pipe. ““Yourcalculations! I knew you were born with a . cyb machine in your mouth; but I didn’t know it was in 7 lieu of brains. Not until this morning.” He breathed heavily, and then coughed, his plump face going red. He finished, wheezingly: ‘“‘Just let me handle the client this afternoon.” “Okay, Cal. If you wish. But Ill hang around just in . case you get in trouble.” “You should take that skinny body of yours along to the ship and see about the engines. We may have a lot of jumping about to do.” “Those engines’ll hold up until Venus freezes over!” Vaun began hotly. He stood up quickly, his lanky body towering over the compact Calshot. A cracked chime bonged from the doorway and the far end began to flush its sickly shade of pink. “A customer!” Vaun said. **And you haven’t rewound the tape. Hurry, ‘or he'll get that last section of the rocket derby we recorded.” Vaun flung himself at the controls and feverishly began to rewind the tape, punched conmiicloooks.comn