Authentic Science Fiction Monthly, No. 67 — page 66: what you’re looking at

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

You can learn an awful lot at a Post Mortem ROBERT PRESSLIE UFFY ITCHED. IT WAS NO ID comfort to know that the great hall was icy cold; these places always were. He was hot and he itched, and he couldn’t scratch. He wished it was time for Gillick to relieve him. Earlier in the evening the hall had been crowded and the time had flown. He had felt pretty important standing guard over the catafalque. It had been interesting to sort out the different types: the sensation-seeking ghouls, the hero-worshipping kids who didn’t know the corpse on the catafalque had been a louse, the dolled+up chicks taking time off from the dance parlours to get a dubious thrill out of ogling a dead shrimp of a man old enough to be their father. The chicks had been the best fun, giggling and squealing when Duffy winked at them through his faceplate. But the mob had thinned out. Only fifty or so remained, filing slowly and silently through the frigid gloom. Duffy was bored with them. He guessed these were the real mourners; nobody else would have left it so late. He would have liked to tell them that they were wasting ~ their tears and their sym- pathy on Forde. Yet, irrespec- tive of what Forde had been, loyalty to the Corps stilled his tongue, and instead of ' pitying the mourners for their 65 misplaced grief, he envied them because at least they felt the chill air of the hall and didn’t itch as he did. He envied Forde a little, too. The dead captain was in a spacesuit like himself. But the captain wasn’t sweaty and itching. He cursed the admin officer who.had dreamed up the idea of Forde’s crew standing guard in full space rig. He sneaked a glance at comicloooks.com