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Well, well get him for sure this time. I—I dont know. No—yes, I do! Washing his hands of the affair entirely, Eb sold him the plot. And then, as the stars slowly revolved around him, he suddenly knew the origin of that haunting memory. It had been many years since he had read Poes short stories; but who could ever forget them? And already the Dawners had set Wednesday morning to jumping.* * * * by Darrel T. Langart Of these eight titles, six are monthlies, and two bimonthly. In 1945-46, with eight titles, there was an average of four magazines a month issued; now there are seven. In 1949, when there were also seven magazines a month on the stands, they comprised17 titles. In the peak year for s-f magazine publishing, 1953, there were four times as many titles as now—but onlytwice as many magazines. Her name was Myra and she had neither eyebrows nor lashes nor even a faint, transparent down along her cheeks. Once she had had long, black hair, but now, looking at her pink, bare face, one would guess she had been a redhead. If you saw a man about to jump in the river, would you (a) move his clothes so he wouldnt trip on them (b) call your friends to watch (c) get something to eat afterwards (d) none of these things. Hart Crane saw that one way of making a complete living world-picture was to treat machines as a kind of comrade in evolutionary advance—if you treat them as mere instruments, when of course theyre images of the mind, then you deaden yourself and them. . . . "I dont wanna go nowhere." A guard came in scowling.Sorry, sir. Theres no sign of any such person in the building now. He must have gotten away. —Maybe someone will rescue me, he hoped. It was in the madhouse that I met Hutzvalek, last year, the narrator smiled again. Or rather, in a home for nervous cases. He had been there several times before. When Prague was liberated, he was found under the debris of a ruined building in one of the suburbs. He was unconscious for weeks. He had the remains of a German uniform on, true enough, but everybody in the Revolutionary Guard had something of the sort. It was assumed that he had escaped from the Gestapo prison in Pankrac during the fighting that May, and been wounded. He did not talk much about his experiences himself andagreed that it sounded incredible. The fits of unconsciousness kept on coming back; he was operated several times, brain operations, and then for a time a specific infection was treated at a sanatorium in the Tatras. It was fifteen years after the war before he really got back to normal life. That was when his nervous troubles really started. His son, young Hutzvalek, worked in a nationalized chemists shop and had been arrested on a charge of stealing from the shop; his daughter ran away when she was sixteen, crossed the frontier illegally, and sent no good news home of herself, either. She was not in Berne, it was true. In the weeks that followed, the pharmacist began attacking passersby whenever he thought they wore their scarves suspiciously high across their faces, or whenever they seemed to be hiding behind dark glasses. But then he saw something that had not been there before the trouble-making penny. Attached to the original hut were two unusually large, very luxurious rooms, or almost rooms. Add ceilings and finish the walls properly and nobody could take them for anything but rooms. They were most emphatically not banks, because though moneys had been deposited in them these moneys were not for withdrawing. The walls could certainly be finished in the right manner. There would be no withdrawals from this gone-out-of-business bank. The point had never occurred to me before—whether liquor would foul up the accuracy of the Contact. Beneath the hedge, inside Harold Sanderson, a red angel and a white fought for mastery. Harold panted; sweat started out on his face and slid down his cheeks, his hands gripped convulsively, the fingers crumbling twigs and earth. And the red angel conquered, and waved its sword and shouted an awful truth, and Harold growled and slid forward, small now only in stature. His fingers were crooked, wanting to squeeze and twist. Yes. Do you understand?.
