Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 71 — page 60: what you’re looking at

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

¢ EXPLOITER’S END . crackled. “To the Guild agent, wherever he may be. Today you murdered thirty-seven Terms. Is this your altruism? Is this your vaunted justice?” ~ He went on, his voice like organ music, sweeping away all doubt, making you proud and glad to be a part of Amalgamated, part of Produc- tion, when quite suddenly his ‘voice choked off. Simultane- ously another voice ripped through the hall. A cold ironic whisper, lashing at the mind. Altruism, yes. But not as you conceive it. Today you passed your own judgment. You have twenty-four hours to evacuate before this Plant -is destroyed. The verdict is final.” The dining hall echoed with moans. Hands leaned to agon- ised temples. The thought- caster again, on a wide-band frequency. Through the pain I was conscious of Starza’s voice. The Guild was trying to bluff us. We wouldn’t let them. I stumbled out of the hall, my teeth chattering, took 39 the lift down to the first level, and got outside, to walk free in the park. Here was Eden. Giant coni- fers and ferns wove a cool green pattern of delight, and the laughter of the crystal fountains soothed. Terms had fashioned this garden, had created a poem in living green, a quiet fugue of oneness, each leaf blending exquisitely with the next, the unity, the perfect whole. For one weak moment I let the pattern seep insidiously into me, and then, ashamed, focused my — eyes on that jarring splash of white in the centre of the garden. The ten-foot model of the Amalgamated X-3M, squat with power, lifting on her stern jets. A symbol of Amalgamated’s strength, the indomitable spirit of mankind, beauty born of pure utility. Oddly, a half-remembered poem of the Ancients flitted through my brain: Dirty British Coaster with hersalt-cakedsmokestack, Butting through the Channel on the mad March days— cComichookszcom=