Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 71 — page 91: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION John didn’t say anything; he was being violently ill. Captain Mark Engles put down his book, tilted back his chair and stared up at the ceiling. He was a big, raw- boned man, his face seamed and with prominent cheek- bones, his lips thin, his short hair showing touches of grey. Like his body his hands were big, the palms broad and the knuckles scarred with old wounds. He had the physical equipment of a man of violent action, but now, as he leaned back and stared at the blank expanse of the ceiling, his eyes were those of a dreamer. It was a trick he had, this relaxing and staring into nothingness. A trait that he had encouraged and developed during many years. Its prac- tical use was attested by his rapid promotion from rookie cop to a captain in Homicide, for, at such times he was, in imagination, a different per- son in different circumstances. A murderer on the run, a 90 killer lurking in darkness, a slayer who thought himself safe from discovery. It helped to be able to gain empathy with such a person—helped to put them where they belonged. But the trait had another, intensely personal aspect, too. Now he was alone, bound, the walls of sweating stone, the air heavy with the stench of glowing charcoal and alive with the little, menacing sounds of boiling oil and touching metal. Feet shuffled towards him, soft, whispering as crude leather trod the reeking stone of the dungeon. ~ They came nearer, nearer, and he tensed, straining mentally, against imaginative bonds, his heart pounding in his chest and the cold sweat of fearful anticipation oozing from his forehead. Desperately, he gritted his teeth, clenching his jaws against what was to come. The door opened, Lieuten- ant Stanley entered the office, and the dream world vanished with the turning of the knob. Comichbooks; com>,