Issue 05 # Dec 1950 by Fantasy; Science Fiction

Author:Fantasy; Science Fiction
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-05-16T05:42:50+00:00

SPECIAL BINDER OFFER

Last chance at the special low price of $1.00 each. We still have on hand a limited supply of these handsome, useful binders for your copies of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Each binder holds one complete volume — that is, six issues of the magazine. Increased costs make it necessary for us to raise the price to $1.50 when the present supply is gone. Hurry and send order and remittance at $1.00 each to: Binder Dept., The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, 570 Lexington Ave., New York 22, New York.

The wanderer always learns that man dominates nothing of what he thinks to rule. The seafarers of old knew that there was no height and no depth, no vastness from the Gates of Hercules to Ultima Thule in which man could he alone; and the spacemen of the future will know that the void of space is empty only to scientific instruments. Today’s airmen co?ne back from missions with knowledge not readily shared with the wingless; but we’re fortunate that Herb Paul, at once a colonel in the Air Force and a skillful writer, has chosen to reveal a little of that knowledge in this charming and touching romance.

The Angel with Purple Hair

by HERB PAUL

It was between the dark and the daylight, when the folks up about Fifty-fifth and Fifth are accustomed to stir about in a spirit of restlessness, and she came walking into the dim-lit hush-plush of the Mabuhay Club, slim and lovely in a clinging business of gold lame, and she whipped the ghost of a smile over Craig Gordon’s new dinner jacket with its fresh carnation. Then she expertly folded her wings and slid gracefully into the upholstered corner where Craig puts strangers whom lie hasn’t quite sized up, and as her beautiful head went by the carnation Craig could see that her hair was a pale purple and he could smell that it smelled of dew on spring roses. She smiled up at him, gently, and then he decided to take a breath.

“Good evening …” he said. The ‘Madame’ stuck in his throat and stayed there.

“Good evening, Mr. Gordon.” The voice was low as a whisper, and he thought of an Aeolian harp. He hadn’t in years.

The crest of one great white wing stirred restlessly behind her shoulder and she frowned ever so slightly. Gordon stepped nervously back and swallowed and remembered to take another breath. He was staring at the wing in terrible fascination.

“Mr. Gordon,” she murmured.

He leaned forward attentively.

“Your — your — Highness?” he stammered. It was the only thing to say. He smiled proudly, and a little foolishly.

“You have got the table on my left wing tip,” she said.

He dove to his knees cracking his head smartly on the table in passing. One broad white tip-feather was crushed beneath the gate leg of the table. He heaved frantically at the heavy base and as it gave, the wing tip lifted, stirred for a moment, and came to rest beside the golden slipper heel.

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