THE MISSIONARY
By J. F. BONE
ILLUSTRATOR EMSH
What value has a promise when you make
it to the Father of Evil? To slay him, I
could promise anything—and still be free
of sin. Indeed, his death would make me holier.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories October 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
My leg itched. The knitting fracture beneath the cast was letting me know in no uncertain terms that a simple fracture is simple in name only. There is nothing like a nagging, unscratchable itch. It doesn't really hurt, but after awhile it can become unadulterated torture,—and all you can do is grin and bear it. Ultimately you stop grinning.
To make matters worse, I had Wolverton for company. Zard knows, I despised the man enough before I saw him and contact had only served to change my dislike to active loathing.