Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 71 — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

It was a strange harvest, the gathering of the best, and yet, in a way, those who failed also gained HARVEST by JOHN ARKWRIGHT OUNG CLIFFORD WAS ¥ osing patience. “Hurry, please,”’ he begged. Smithson walked more quickly. He passed a tattered clump of bushes, waded through knee-high grass to- wards the village, and then tripped over something sharp. With a cry of pain he fell and lay buried in cool green stalks. Blood trickled from his gashed ankle to stain the weeds and seep into the ground. The wound might have become serious had not Clifford intervened; he made the red stream halt and the lips of the cut close gently. ‘69 Two minutes later, only a scar remained. “Thanks, Clifford,’ thought Smithson. Relieved, he sat up and fumbled cautiously till his hands were gripping the half-concealed cause of his injury. He tugged in vain, then rose, stood astride the object and wrenched. It came free with a savage tearing of shoots. It was broken and rusty, and strands of grass trailed from it; a plump pink worm, bewildered, wriggled from the disturbed soil that clung to the object’s saw- toothed edge. ‘Part of a binder blade,” conmicldooks.conn