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Only 1 per table Expires July 24, Claim Offer. Send SMS Send me updates for this business. What am I go- ing to do? Dur- ing breakfast — a groping repetition of the scratch meal of the night before — it increased to a lashing roar on the roof, a downpour into which Mrs. Cranshaw refused point-blank to let them venture. But there's no reason for you to go at all. I — we're very glad to have you.

How could they have foreseen? It was not until some time later, when the increasing cold prompted them to light a fire in the sitting-room fireplace, that the terrible truth began to dawn on them. Painfully, they finally puzzled it out, from facts that could not be gain- said. The fire was almost useless. It radiated no heat whatever into the room, and what little air its flames di- rectly warmed was wasted up the chim- ney. And outside, as they could tell by feeling the panes of the now tightly closed windows, the temperature sank and sank.

In the end they had to move to the kitchen and the oil-stove. That made for an enervating stuffiness, and periodically they had to open the door to let in some fresh air. But at least the air that passed again and again through the burner-tubes was warmed thereby.


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About noon the beat of the rain softened to a strange pattering. After listening awhile, Sterling opened a win- dow in the front part of the house in puzzled curiosity — and felt cold snow- flakes drifting against his face and hands. Snow, in early summer! A tiny, temperate oasis in the ab- solute zero-cold of Space, the Earth was beginning to cool. Slow was that cooling, by scientific standards.

From sixty Fahrenheit, roughly the mean temperature of the day before, to the minus two hundred and seventy-three Centigrade of abso- lute zero is a long long way to go. On the first full "day" of the Darkness the mercury went down but a few de- grees below freezing-point — a very short distance considering how much lower it could still go, but not very far above the limit of that narrow band of temperatures outside which no warm- blooded life can exist.

Cranshaw voiced a doubt that had been filtering into everybody's mind. Would there be enough food in the house? She then took an inventory. There might be enough to last the five of them, on rations, for two more days. Fiercely Sterling blamed himself. So this was his leadership — battening on a disabled ex-soldier and his blind wife, eating them out of their own house!

He should have tried to make Mercer last night, or even this morning, rain or no rain. It was too late to think of their going there now. He couldn't drag Margery out into that snowstorm, with the temperature dropping every minute. But he could try to get there by him- self and bring back food — ij the village had any jood to spare. Cran- shaw. Already they found the snow muffling their footsteps on the garden path, and the air was like mid- winter, with a rising wind. The snow- flakes were no longer big and soft and pattering, but small and dry and powdery.

The air hurt the throat. Within twenty minutes they knew they were off the road. The piling snowdrifts gave their feet no guidance. Cranshaw's gassed throat and lungs were already paining him. It was hopeless to attempt to reach the vil- lage. It was touch-and-go, Sterling realized with a cold around his heart worse than that on his face, whether they would ever get back to the house. They would have to be quick. Their tracks were already starting to fill. Per- haps Mrs.

Cranshaw's super-sensitive ears might hear him. If only she could, and would ring a bell. But no an- swer came. Half dragging Cranshaw, he struggled on, shouting at intervals. Finally he heard the beating of a gong, but by the time he reached the front door, Cranshaw was unconscious. As the clock signaled the slow pas- sage of the hours, a nagging ache of cold began to attack their extremities. There was nothing they could do but wrap themselves in blankets and sit around the oil-stove in the kitchen, drinking hot tea whenever they felt the need of it.

Nobody seemed to want to talk. Even Margery's nerves began to tauten. In the relative warmth of the kitchen, Cranshaw had quickly re- covered; but he had become subdued now. The End of the World was get- ting too close to talk about it.

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All night the oil-stove burned on, and all night they sat huddled around it, uncomfortably dozing, miserably wak- ing up, straining their useless eyes for light — light — light — the light they were longing for but which they feared they would never see again. And the next day, as Sterling had dreaded from the first, poor Rogers cracked. The hours had crawled intolerably. The cold had stiffened and stiffened, inexorably, like a slowly closing vice. Again no one had felt like talking. Until late in the "afternoon," Cran- shaw suddenly threw off the lethargy that had held him ever since Sterling had dragged him back from sure death.

And that was the last straw. Without warning or preamble, he snatched from the past the mantle of Moses, to confront the Pharaohs of the modern world with wild demands and accusations — and even wilder threats. Despots, financiers, and poli- ticians; pharisee-priests of religion, moloch-priests of trade and commerce, jazz-mad spirit of amusement and pastime, sex-obsessed purveyors of mass-produced fiction and films — he arrayed and arraigned them all before him, and stormed at them as if they were really in the room and himself the Mouthpiece of the Lord.

Plague by plague he took them through the long-forgotten horrors that had come to ancient Egypt — likening them, with all the unanswerable plausibility of the religiously unhinged, to the visitations of the war and the post-war years. The blood-stained Nile became the waters of a flooded Flanders, shell-churned to mingled mud and blood and flesh.

The Murrain and the Plague of Boils were but the prophetic "type" of the post- war scourge that the doctors had labeled "influenza" because they had no idea what it really was. But Cran- shaw knew. It was the Hand of an out- raged Jehovah. And the Locusts? Did not a cloud of them ravage all Africa only a few years ago?

And now here was the Darkness, the Ninth Plague. Three days and three nights the Egyptians had sat cowering, each in his own house, as they themselves were sitting now, in a thick blackness that had mantled all the land. But this time it would last three years. The Firstborn? More than the firstborn — that was but a shadow of the Wrath to come.

All flesh: You will not let my people go. My people will not go. They are no longer my people. Divorced, outcast, unworthy, to be purged from the earth they have despoiled! The world shall be without form and void, as it was in the Beginning, and Darkness shall cover its winding- sheet of ice — " It was then that Rogers, snarling like an infuriated animal, sprang at the man. A wild trampling, hands gripping and tearing, feet stamping and twisting, body thudding against body in an un- seen tangle of chairs.

Crockery crash- ing and crunching; and, ghastliest of all, the sobbing beast-like mouth-noises of the maddened Rogers, the gasping, truncated denunciations of his victim, and the cries of the two women. Appalled, Sterling leapt into the midst of it. The stove! Good God, the oil-stove! If they knocked that over. Where are you, Alan? At last he found a convulsively writhing leg, was kicked away, crawled doggedly back again, found the two locked together, Rogers on top, throt- tling the other. Sterling got his fingers around the airman's throat, braced himself, and dragged him up and back.

Continuing to drag him away, he shouted, "Mar- gery! Here he is — I got him! Maybe you can quiet him — " But Rogers, like the wild beast he had become, broke the grip with a sudden twist of his body and went plunging through the door. They heard him floundering in the sitting-room, bumping into furniture in his rush to reach the front door. Filled with foreboding fear for him, they groped after him, only to hear the front door open and shut again with a bang a moment later. A blast of air and snow, like fire and ice, smote their faces. Margery rushed to the door, opened it again, and took one stum- bling step down into the powdery waist-high drift.

It was like stepping into a bath of boiling water. No more snow was falling. The cold had squeezed the air dry by now, to the razor-keen dryness of intensest frost. It was Sterling who pulled Margery back, already drowsy from that awful cold, and tried to take her place. But an instant's thought, even as he plunged down the path, told him how futile it was to try and follow the airman. In that blind dark he had no idea where to look for him. Already his footprints were lost.

To stay out there looking for him would only mean his own use- less death — leaving two women behind with a religious maniac. Rogers had made his choice, he had found a way out, with perhaps a hint of redeeming honor, the choice of a man who could no longer live with himself, could not bear the strain of waiting any longer for death. But was that all? Could not the idea have flashed into his mind, in one last moment of blinding sanity, that his going would mean more food for those who remained?

Just then, with a strange faintness, he heard the women calling him. A hand grabbed his arm. Cranshaw say. He felt himself drawn in, heard the door slam shut be- hind him. Dizzily and stumbling clumsily over his feet, which had some- how become two blocks of ice and lead, he spread out his arms to feel the wall.

His right hand must have touched it, for he felt the jar of it in his shoulder, but there was no sensation in his fin- gers. He swayed. He was collapsing, but could not do anything to save him- self. He fell against Mrs. Still dimly conscious, he heard her call to Margery to help her with him. Sterling's last thought before he fainted away was that Rogers must al- ready be dead, or lying in the brief coma that leads to death, out there in that awful stinging snow.

Well, it would not be long before they followed him. The whole world must be dying. Could Cranshaw be right after all, and Margery wrong? Had humanity — failed? Was all life to be frozen off the earth, and the planet to lie fallow until the ageless powers of Nature could create a new and better life? His whole body seemed to be afire, tor- tured by a thousand pinchers, shot through with a million needles. If this was the Resurrection. You passed right out. We've been rubbing you for over an hour.

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Thought you'd never. Thank God you did. But oh! Just like falling asleep. It's all over for him now. W r e still got to face things.

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Why did you bring me back? The moment it was out he was ashamed of it. We mustn't! If we're to die, we'll die. But we mustn't die before we're — called. Cran- shaw, practical as always. He swallowed a mouthful, then asked, "Where's Mr. I drove him to it. I see that now. And it wasn't as if Mary didn't warn me. I'm the same as a murderer. He could not cope with much more of that. He doesn't damn us, He sees us through. He'll see us through now, whether we live or die. I think I think we ought to Then, almost in a whisper, uncontrollably trembling, she spoke two hesitating words — and the tension eased.

Few of its words were really in keeping with their desperate plight, but it was the prayer itself, with its associations, that helped them. There followed a quiet, filled with a deep and calming peace which none of them dared to break. The Cranshaws sat hand in hand, as if waiting. Ster- ling lay back in his tight-wrapped blanket, beyond all reach of thought, hardly knowing even that Margery had crept into the roomy chair beside him.

She lay with her head down on his chest, spent utterly w r ith reaction. There was no need for her to struggle any more, no need to spend her spirit to help and uphold poor Alan any more — he was in Other hands now. And she wanted to rest. Oh, how she wanted to rest! Time was not. Their bodies could not have been far from that trance- inertia which is always the herald of death by cold; but they did not sleep.

Sterling knew that he was wakeful as never before — waiting, as the Cran- shaws waited, as that night all Creation must have waited. It broke the spell. Margery heard it and stirred. I can hardly feel anything at all. He lay and wondered at himself, wondering if he was dreaming. Surely, here in the very presence of death, this couldn't really be? Margery was whispering again.

Rogers' words of the first night, before Margery had come in, had come back to him. He had the key to them now. Rogers had under- stood then. It seemed that this Darkness had the power to clear that other darkness that was in men's minds. All, apparently, for nothing. But the thought had little or no poignancy now. That death should be universal somehow made it seem less tragic. It is those who are left behind who feel death's tragedy. Now no one was to remain behind.

All the world was going on the same jour- ney. Margery was very still now. Had she gone already? The thought swept away his dim philosophy like cloud- wrack. Margery 1 Dead? His arm tightened about her as if to drag her back, hold her back. She stirred. She raised her head a little. Her lips lightly touched his cheek, then found his own.

He himself must be getting near the end, for he was beginning to see visions. A little halo of faintest purple, hover- ing just over Margery's head. For a long time he watched it, convinced that when it sank down onto her, into her, she would die. It had come to take her. With all the vital power that was left to him he willed it not to move.

It obeyed. Presently he realized that it was brightening gradually to a dim and ghostly green. Around it the vague outline of some sort of framing began to appear.

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Near it, like some occult symbol, was a clouded appari- tion like a hand, hanging loosely down- ward. After a while he could make out the thumb and fingers. What did it mean? A golden glow had begun to Bicker about the brightening green halo-ring. Sterling shut his eyes, held them shut for a whole minute, then opened them again. Margery— Light! And the hand was the left hand of Mr. Cranshaw, hanging down loosely from the arm of his chair. At the sound of Sterling's shout, it clenched convulsively, then lifted to the chair-arm and gripped it as its owner bent forward, blinking amazedly at the returning light.

At last, from the heavily frosted win- dow, they looked out on a world of dawning gray, and, after an age of waiting, the Sun rose, bright and clear and warm, over a limitless waste of snow. A bullet- riddled wall was at his back. Bloody sands were under his feet. A Nazi of- ficer stood beside the firing squad, right hand upflung. At the count of "Drei," that hand would fall. Eight rifles would bark; eight bullets would rip through the foul air of the torch-lit, sub-desert chamber and — "Steady!

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The blood-soaked sands made that clear. Others — like Nason — on reconnaissance far south over that flam- ing hell called the Libyan Desert hunt- ing a rumored secret Nazi base, must, also, have swooped low to inspect heat- blurred dots on that wasteland. They, too, might have spotted Junker trans- ports unloading, only to — "Crash 1" Nason muttered. Not another plane in the sky; not a single ack-ack battery in action. Yet something shot us down. Some- Some of those pilots, too, must have survived to be dragged down endless steps and along brick-shored tunnels to this musty, buried chamber.

There — like Nason — wrists had been knotted behind backs. Shoulders had been Gregg Nason went into the invincible city of Luvium under Sahara's sands and found its invincibility was really a weakness! Men i. Then — "Zwei! The leveled rifles, the upraised arm seemed to weave ominously beneath the flickering light of an oil flare — a flare propped on a sind bank near one of the room's three! Muffled sounds came i hrough those doorway s — metallic dinks, motor hums, feet grinding through sand-crusted tunnels. Why this secret buried base? Why this concentration of men?

What pos- sible objective could be reached from here? The Libyan's fringes were bad enough; its interior was unfiltered hell. Yet here — trackless miles from no- where — the Nazis were grouping. Gregg Nason, now, would never know. There could be no re- prieve. Only the Nazis — and the dead — knew of this subterranean hideout. The officer sucked in a breath. The eight riflemen went rigid. Nason's heart stopped. Long tension-packed seconds passed in which even the door- side torch seemed to freeze in horror. Then, the hand swept downward.

Seering fires burned across Nason's scalp. He slammed backward, hit the wall and crumpled, his mind a turmoil of flaming rifles, thunderous reports and gurgling screams. A bulky object crashed into his stom- ach, doubling him up like an emptying meal sack. With head and feet dan- gling, he felt himself being bounced through quivering darkness. Apoca- lypse. Thereafter, all was a jumble of pounding feet, brick tunnels, dank odors and laddered bores drilled to im- possible depths. Sometimes, he, himself, seemed to be running, hands free. Death, itself, sped behind him. A pal- lid-skinned, glitter-eyed monster — its human form fast lathering beneath an eerie sleeveless toga upon which crim- son stones shimmered like hateful eyes.

A phantom that clutched a bloody flat sword and howled curses as it goaded its victim deeper into Earth's bowels. Twice, they seemed to be in cities. One was a ruin, sand-choked, time- crumpled ; the other, a magnificent pile of solemn stately edifices, fantastic hieroglyphics and cleared streets along which walked only the unseen dead.

Then, amazingly, they left all that and went scrambling through dust- smeared mine passages, wormed through rock cracks and trailed twist- ing fissures for what seemed all eternity. Running — always: Fleeing, it seemed, an unnamed horror. Turning once, try- ing to pierce the murk behind, Gregg Nason's legs tangled.

He sprawled full length. Death tripped heavily across him. And the last Nason saw was the phantom bladesman, lunging toward him, great hands outstretched, claw- fashion. Something sizzling hot bounced off Gregg Nason's skull. His eyes swept open. A spent rifle shell was ricocheting from a stalagmite finger ris- ing from the dank floor beside him. He lay in a cavern on clammy gran- ite, gasping in stagnant, smoke-stained air. Something lumpish soft was under his head.

Nason sat up and recoiled. A Nazi soldier, in full battle gear, had been his pillow. A dead Nazi. The rifle spat again. A distant pain- shriek wafted from that slit. He spat, crossed one point-toed sandal carelessly over the other. Both soles were oil-coated. He glanced over a brawny shoulder. Annoyed grey eyes caught Nason's. How you feel? I've been hold- ing off half the German army, the other end of this fissure, just waiting on you. A long shallow gash lay where the hair's part-line should have been. And it stung! Nason gasped. I jumped from a doorway, stamped out the torch and took a couple swipes with ol' Betsy here.

A transparent scabbard, hooked to a broad, pocketed belt, revealed a crim- son-stained sword. That bullet crease is all you got. I grabbed you on the run — and made you run until that guy. The quicker you get this, the better. We're in a jam. We — watch it! It had no apparent origin. Guiding the way through the winding crevice, the rifle- man slapped a bulge at his belt.

A Luvium product. You remember your plane crash? Just listen. It was a Luvium rifle. Radium powered. Those Reichateers stole it — and my hel- met. That was weeks ago. I'd climbed up to Zandu to look at the sun and — " "Zandu? You recall what happened after you crashed? They dragged me down steps to tunnels beneath the desert. A city of the past — its peoples dead and forgotten before our history began. Me'n a tough little archaeologist found it years ago.


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We cleared a few tunnels before we dis- covered richer game beneath it. Another city, centuries older. Remember climb- ing down those laddered bores and reaching those stately buildings with the cleared streets? Likewise deserted —dead. It's locked in rock, three- hundred feet below Zandu. The way we figured it, Zanduian archaeologists drilled those bores and had fun rebuild- ing Thista before they, too, were swal- lowed up by time. We're far under Thista now, deep in the rock.

Headed for—" A hoarse shout echoed from the dark- ness behind. A pistol flared. Some- where, a bullet sang off rock. Turning, Nason saw, far back, flashlights danc- ing from slimy stalactites. Jack Wright. Those names mean nothing. But a picture might. It was a picture of huge white men, wearing purple togas shimmering with red gems. Dark eyes glinted from beneath rims of bell-shaped helmets. The men were gripping swords and shouting blood-chilling battle cries as they surged forward upon a horse- shaped platform high above the ter- raced flooring of a tank-like structure.

Men shouting; men surging! In a picture Nason held in his hands. And winced as he felt the wound. His flying rig hung in shreds, reveal- ing a hefty brown arm mottled with ugly bruises. A dream? Still running. Nason gaped at the picture. It moved, had depth. Sounds welled from it — and the bewitching scent of jasmine. Once a sur- face race that built against an ice age — that whipped life-sustaining elements from the rock beneath it as Earth's crust folded above.

Today, it's a city of fighting fools with a command of the sciences we won't understand for cen- turies. That's a picture of its subway — the Taumb. A mine station. Imposing chair-cars, many coupled as t r a i n s and all sus- 1 pended from an endless, overhead rail, were zipping from wall openings around inside the platforms to come to jolting stops at segregated landings. Men, in vivid-colored togas were vaulting from those carriers. Women, too, wrapped in flowing gowns of solid, sombre color with hair banked high and with full lips gleaming like fresh blood against the salt-white of their skins.

Men and women, tumbling from car- riers, swarming down ramps to a con- course, dotted with strange booths to jam around the platform on which the nearest warriors, upwards of fifty, were charging. A man sprang to the platform, howl- ing a sing-song gibberish. The fifty grim warriors flung the speaker aside and charged toward a n o t h e r of the train's occupants — a grey-eyed giant— who had vaulted out, snatched a sword and whirled to meet the attack.

That man was — "Me! Known down- under as Adu, The Stranger. That howling devil led me into an ambush. I escaped to kick the teeth out of Luvium's mad king. We're here! Even today read- ers have asked for a sequel. So now all we have left is a couple of possible tours during our stay in London. With that done Jan and I headed out for lunch and some errands about 1pm.

Before leaving the park, we dropped off some garbage at the dumpster and checked out the changes going on. Over the next few months all the sites are being updated to have. One thing we wanted do at lunch was to check out the traffic changeover at I and FM scheduled for this weekend. The southbound side of I was to be shutdown, but the northbound side was supposed to be routed over part of the new overpass.

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But, apparently they lied. Both sides of the I were closed and traffic was backed up for miles. We got out of it by driving back up an entrance ramp onto the feeder and following Google Maps out into the countryside for a while. One taste and we knew we had made a great choice, both the appetizer and the restaurant. It is a Cajun place, after all. And it too, was really good.