Avon Fantasy Reader No. 9 — page 42: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

exodus of the peoples of Atlantis from their demolished- capital, once the fairest city of all their empire. ~ Would that I could express the emotion that we felt as we watched that. tragic flow of homeless people out of the shattered beauty of that great city! Some, who have also seen, have felt it, but not as we did, with the memory of the blasted city of grey dust fresh before us. Details stand out in my E mind, quickly caught snatches as the aero hung low over the road or slowly : moved along it. I see them again: the little ragged child, dressed in the blue of the laborers, toddling blindly along behind an old man of the aristo- crats, who clutched to his breast his precious scrolls that dropped one by one from his weakening grasp; the delicate vase, a miracle in rose and ivory, lying by the wayside unharmed by the trampling feet that thundered all about it; the tiny, downy mite of a duckling, crying frantically, totter- ing on and on along the harsh stone of the road, stumbling, falling, beating with its little featherless wings in a vain. effort to fly, clamoring with its feeble voice, beating at the broken glass and twisted metal underfoot with lacerated, bleeding webs until a great foot came down upon it and mashed it into a tiny mat of blood and golden down! There were more, many more like that, but of them all the struggling duckling stands-out for me, for I have raised ducks and could feel with it. | For the last time the screen was filled with light. We were gazing from the little balcony into the great temple. It was filled with a frantic, milling press of men and women, trampling each other down in mad terror. They thronged upon the great statue of Poseidon, clutching at it with pleading hands, begging forgiveness, salvation, beating down the priests and guards who strove to drive them back! A figure clothed in flowing robes of green and gold appeared in their midst—the high priest. He raised his hands, spoke in a low, clear voice. As by magic the throng bowed its head, knelt. On and on rang that bell-like voice, reassuring, consoling, even as the first wisps of swirling grey appeared in the open doorway. He stopped, and all the multitude broke into song, a slow stirring chant that filled all the temple. Louder and louder, clearer and clearer it rolled to our ears, drowning out the cries of agony as the outer ranks melted and were gone. Like fire the malignant fungus ate its way through the praying throng, licking out tongues of sulphur or purple to pull down a tall youth or a feeble old woman, sending up twisting scarlet tentacles and wormlike arms of white! The cries drowned out the hymn now, but none stirred in fear. Fearless the tall figure beneath the golden statue gazed out over the dwindling sea _ of bent, heads, as his strong clear voice sang on, leading, promising. Then ; he too was gone, and a thin, faint wisp drifted up toward the balcony. The camera toppled and the screen went blank. Doc stopped the projector. We had no desire to see again the grey desolation that lay. over the city without. For about a month we explored Yzdral—the “City of Heaven” the old Atlantides called it, for of ail the two hundred cities or city-states of the Underworld, Yzdral was first, in beauty as in chronological precedence. One 40 ee NE eT er ee oT ae) ene ? : ye SP vod cComicvooksscom