by Albert Simpson
Vol. 1, No. 12, 1960
Orrin Conway was an authentic
genius. His brilliant pioneer-work in astral physics had done more than
the work of any one man to put America and the world on the road to space.
He was also an authentic breast man. Women were his sole hobby, aside from
his work--and the larger their bosom measurements, the more he adored them.
Dying at 38, as a result of a collision with
a drunken laborer's car on the Santa Ana Freeway south of Los Angeles,
he lay clear-headed but hopelessly broken in body on a hospital bed, speculating
upon the what lay beneath the starched white bosom of the nurse who sat
at his bedside.
Rather to his surprise, he felt little pain.
Perhaps, he thought, his injuries were so severe that his nerves were unable
to convey the messages of agony to his brain. He knew that he was dying,
but there was nothing he could do about that. It was something he
had accepted even ahead of the doctors who had struggled vainly to patch
"Honey," he said to the primly pretty young
"Yes, Dr. Conway?" He hated being called "Doctor,"
but did not intend to waste any of his precious remaining time arguing
"Honey, I'd like to know what you're carrying
around under that starched shirt-front you're wearing."
She colored--he realized she was either very
young or very inexperienced. "A slip," she said softly--he smiled, because
he knew she must have been ordered to humor him.
"And under that?" he asked.
"A bra," she replied, her blush growing deeper.
"And under that?"
"My--I mean, nothing." Her face was a glorious,
"Not nothing," he said sternly. "May I see
Her blue eyes pleaded with him, but his regard
was remorseless. After a long moment, the tip of her pink little tongue
ran over her lower lip. "Do I have to?" she asked helplessly.
"Please!" he said firmly.
"Very well." She showed a charming flash of
spirit. "I'm a forty-one."
He pursed his lips and whistled. "Honey,"
he said, "you're my kind of woman. If I get out of this pad, how about
The blue eyes flashed anger. "Dr. Conway,"
she said sternly, "I should think, in view of your condition, that you'd
have better things to think about than the size of my bosom."
"You name something better, and I'll think
about it," he told her.
She hesitated, then said, "I mean, you're
a genius. You should be thinking about our race against Russia to get into
space, about helping man to the stars and--and..."
"...and all that jazz," he finished for her.
"Oh, well--anything to oblige a beautiful girl, especially one with a forty-one-inch
He did think about the intricate calculations
that would take a spaceship not merely to the Moon, but to Venus, to Mars,
perhaps beyond. He was still thinking of them when he blacked out...
...and when he came to, the intricate formulae
still flashed and wheeled through his magnificent brain. He had it--he
could see just how it could be done, and years ahead of the Russians, too.
Never had his mind been so clear, so farseeing.
It was then that he saw the gigantic breast
directly above him, the largest, softest, breast he had ever seen. Dimly,
because of its nearness, he could see its mate just beyond, coral-tipped,
perfectly symmetrical. Incredibly, some giant, gentle hand was lifting
him toward it.
It was then that the terrible combination
of thirst and hunger seized him, that he kissed the huge nipple, not to
kiss but to suck. It was then that all thoughts of the stars vanished from
his newborn mind, never to return.