Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 71 — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION cool dew melts the dryness from his tongue. “We have lessened your fear, Smithson. The testing is complete. You were uncon- scious for most of its dura- tion.” Memory walks slowly through the corridors of his brain, opening a door here and there. Nothing made sound in the ship save the automatic fans, shrilling softly, blowing stale air away with twisting lips. The chronometer indicated eight o’clock, Greenwich mean time. Out here, however, there was no night or morning. Smithson was watching Car- ruthers—yes, and remem- bering how Carruthers had climbed with Joan, through the mist, up the dead rock of the mountainside. How could one man earn such hatred? Smithson hated Carruthers; he hated him as only a jealous husband could hate. Carruthers was dark and 72 lean and had a merry laugh, and Smithson’s wife admired such men. Carruthers and Joan had forgotten Smithson for part of that holiday. » ‘““Next -year . . .” decided Smithson. “‘Yes, another holi- day there; and I'll find a Way-<s-- The fans chewed and sneered. “Cooped up!” growled Matthews. “Cooped up in this thing like animals! Why can’t they design machines to——” Paralysis gripped them, as though a great syringe had stabbed into the ship to inject numbness. Men, chronometer, churn- ing fans—frozen. And something had entered the cabin, a merest hazy suggestion of solidity, a coil- ing flicker-—— Smithson screams, crouch- ing among them beneath the clean light. Wine fills his veins once more and his fear subsides. | conniclsooks.conn