"That's not what I want to see. I want—"
The old man snickered. "I know what you want. Indeed I do. This way."
I followed his spidering hand and sure enough, there they were. Stacks upon stacks of air-war pulp magazines.
"Fifteen cents for ones in good condition," the old man pronounced the ritual, "a dime for ones with incomplete covers, three for a quarter, check 'em at the desk when you go."
I ran my hand down a stack. Wings, Daredevil Aces, G-8 and his Battle Aces, The Lone Eagle, all of them.
The old man was watching me. He skittered back across the floor and snatched up a magazine. It was a copy of Sky Fighters with a girl in a painted-on flying suit hanging from the struts of a Tiger Moth.
"This one, this one," he said. "This must be a good one. I bet she gets shoved right into that propeller there. I bet she gets chopped to pieces. Pieces."
"I'll take it."
Reluctantly he handed over the magazine, waited a moment, then left me.
I stared at the stacks of flying story magazines and I felt the slow run of the drop of sweat down my nose.