Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 72 — page 107: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION for being a waste. So typical of me. I became conscious of a raving, a shouting near my head—the bellowing bawl of a brat who has stubbed his toe and thinks he’s killed. The cobwebs cleared a little more and I realised it was the reporter. That strange sense of time we have made me realise that ten, maybe fifteen minutes had passed. I turned myself over and sank, exhausted and prone, to the rubble fioor of the mine. I rested another minute. The bellowing bawl became louder and my mind cleared more. I pushed myself up to my knees and hands, my head hanging down. The weight of the world was on it, but I lifted it far enough to look over at the voice. The reporter was caught under a timber. There was another timber, partly supporting it. Even then, I knew the reporter wasn’t badly hurt. The timbers must have shaken loose after the last explosion, knocking me out with a glancing blow, and pinning him beneath them. I tried to stand up, and after an age I found I could make it. My knees were shaking, ready to crumble, and I was sick with a terrible nauseating sickness, but I made it. I staggered over to the timber and began to tug at it. The reporter was shriek- ing at me. “Lift it, you fool! Don’t drag it! Lift it!” “It’s too heavy,”’ I gasped. “Next time I tug on it, slide out from under it.” I tugged upward. He slid. The weight was too great. I had to let it down again. He screamed. ““You’re crushing me!” But I could see the bottom timber still held up most of the weight. I tugged upward again. He slid again. This time he slid all the way. I dropped the timber and went down on top of it. I felt myself blacking out again. Faintly, I heard the reporter cursing. “Damned senseless fool. You tore my pants!” I was glad I couldn’t hear anything more. The next time I came to, I 106 comiclbooks.conm)