Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 72 — page 75: what you’re looking at

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

AUTHENTIC SCIENCE FICTION a has-been like you is worth,” Bushman said. I felt the colour drain from my face. Reaching forward I grabbed his loose flowing bow tie. “Shut your mouth, you fat louse,” I gritted. “Don’t do that, Molson.” There was something in the soft voice that made me let go of Bushman and turn to face the youngster. He was standing a few feet away from me. There was no hint of violence in his attitude; he was just grinning in a friendly manner that took me com- pletely by surprise. “Throw him out! I'll get somebody else,’ Bushman wheezed, behind me. *“No, Molson is the best man for the job, and the only one I am prepared to trust,” Grant said. “If you don’t take him, you'll be needing another co-pilot, too.” I looked from one to the other. Bushman, his fat lips writhing like slugs; Grant smiling like a college kid who has just been given a position in the first team. ““What’s so special about running a Lindstrom?’ I asked, suddenly curious. “The crew,” Grant said. *“Bushman told you that every pound counts. I think he was underestimating—he’s really worked it out to the last ounce.”” He was on my side all the way, I could see that. Just why, I couldn’t under- stand, unless he felt that even as the wreck of a spaceman ‘I was nearer to his own kind 74 than the slobbering hulk behind the desk. “What about the crew, Bushman?” I asked. That was the jackpot ques- tion. The fat man paused for a moment, then waved a finger, taking in the two of us. “‘No crew—Jjust you and him.” He really was cutting the corners! But it was possible for two men to handle the ship if they knew their stuff, and they could take the isolation. “You're really willing to take that kind of chance?” I said to Grant, thinking of the things that had been plastered over every screen in the system about me, after the Inquiry. The youngster placed a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, Molson, we'll get along. COmicooOokxs.COm