"As I look they are swinging closer and closer, a million miles at each jump. Millions of miles With the speed of light. Aye, it is light, the quintessence of all light. Beneath it the fog melts into a jeweled mist radiant, rainbow-colored of a thousand varied spectrums.
"I can see the streets. Why, they are filled with people! The lights are coming closer. They are all around me. I am enveloped. I"
The message stopped abruptly. The wire to Xebico was dead. Beneath my eyes in the narrow circle of light from under the green lampshade, the black printing no longer spun itself, letter by letter, across the page.
The room seemed filled with a solemn quiet, a silence vaguely impressive. Powerful.
I looked down at Morgan. His hands had dropped nervelessly at his sides while his body had hunched over peculiarly. I turned the lampshade back, throwing the light squarely in his face. His eyes were staring, fixed. Filled with a sudden foreboding, I stepped beside him and called Chicago on the wire. After a second the sounder clicked its answer.
Why? But there was something wrong. Chicago was reporting that Wire Two had not been used throughout the evening.
"Morgan!" I shouted, "Morgan! Wake up, it isn't true. Someone has been hoaxing us. Why" In my eagerness I grasped him by the shoulder. It was only then that I understood.
The body was quite cold. Morgan had been dead for hours. Could it be that his sensitized brain and automatic fingers had continued to record impressions even after the end?
I shall never know, for I shall never again handle the night shift. Search in a world atlas discloses no town of Xebico. Whatever it was that killed John Morgan will forever remain a mystery.
ELYSIUM
By A. Leslie
Ashes of sky-flame glowing.
Thunder of tide on the bars,
Night, and a wild wind blowing
A curse to the screaming stars.
You, with the salt spray clinging
White in your dusky hair—
You and your wild heart singing
Pæans to the black-green flare.
Flicker of foam a-skirling,
Beat of the sudden rain.
Gashes of moonlight whirling
Rents in the murky stain.
Faces bared to the lashing
Sting of the wind-whipt brine;
Thrill of the white manes flashing,
Throb of your heart to mine.
Death at the helm a-grinning,
Night if the cold hand grips,
Life as the prize for winning—
Life, and the flame of your lips.
