Avon Fantasy Reader No. 13 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

know how exacting the new peor are. You'd better take a shot of adrenalin before you leave.” He paused an instant, then asked: “How’s the patient?” 56 lowered his head. “He’s. lost consciousness,’ he said. “He’s herribly over-emotional, I’m afraid.” 3 “I should think he would be!” exclaimed V67. “A man jealous enough to subject his wife to an atomic bombardment just because she exchanged five- minute kisses with a turbine mechanic is mighty shabby human material.” “Jealousy is a revolting disease,” afirmed F56. “A superstitious, utterly illogical hang-over from the ages of savagery. That man is actually living in the Twentieth Century.” “All strong emotion is pathological,” assented V67 gravely. He was con- scious that he was reaffirming a truism, but he had to say something to ease the tension. F56 was obviously worried about the man on the table. He had lost four cases in as many weeks, and the Chief of Staff was beginning to regard him with suspicion. If the suspicion became a certainty the Chief of Staff might conceivably decide that F56’s place was where his patient was now lying. It was a contingency which F56 didn’t like to think about. He loved the full, abundant life which his slightly unstable glands afforded him. V6/7, despite the astravasin in his blood-stream, could sympathize with this very human weakness of his associate. He was himself slightly unstable. Mechanical Companion GH8 could bear witness to that. Gripping his associate by the shoulder, he murmured reassuringly: “Don't worry, F56. I'll bring him out of it.’ “Thanks, old man,” said F56. His gait was slightly unsteady as he turned from the table and made his way slowly across the vast domed room. With a sigh V67 moved forward, and stood for a moment staring intently down at the white, haggard face of the man on the table. The subject was young, and physically robust. The surgeons of an earlier and less remorseless age would have shuddered at the way V6/'s associate had taken advantage of that robustness. There was only a small area of firm flesh remaining. V67 did not shudder. The man on the table had been guilty of an anti-social act, and society insisted, as it had every right to do, upon a surgical corrective. The man had deliberately reduced his wife to an inert mass of gray ash by bombarding her with an atomic disintegrator. Men who succumbed to violent emotions were a menace to the peace and well-being of the Corporate Commonwealth. The surgeons of Cosmopolis were the benevolent masters, the therapeutic overlords of anti-social bodies. V67 dipped his fingers into a bowl of ammonium vapor, and rubbed them across the young man’s brow. Slowly, unsteadily, the patient’s eyelids flicked open. For a moment he stared up in dazed bewilderment at his new benefactor. Conquering his disgust and enmity, V67 said: “How do you feel now, boy?” The young man’s eyes showed an awareness of pain. He essayed a twisted smile. “I feel pretty rotten, "he said. “How long is it going to take, Surgeon?” “Not long,” said V67. “Not long, boy. We’ve removed a portion of your _ thyroid and right lobe pituitary, and cut away practically all of your adrenal 8 DMicbook com