TIME will TELL
IT WAS an ordinary Friday five o'clock mob that streamed out of the A. G. Bart building on Seventh Street, and I didn't make it any different.
A tow-headed lad yelled "Huuruld! Huuruld!" in my ear as I rounded the corner. Susie Ann would be waiting for me in Clifton's lobby at 5:30. We always had dinner there on Fridays, then went to a movie.
"Hello, Lemuel Mason!"
I turned my head sharply.
A young fellow smiled at me, lounging against the bank, just under the gold-leaf print on the window.
"Hullo." I said uncertainly. I wasn't sure whether I had ever seen him before or not.
"Don't you remember me?" he grinned. "I met you here last year, the year before, and the year before that!"
"Yeh?" I said quizzically. "Wait a minute! Not two years ago—I was in Seattle then."
I scrutinized him carefully, openly.
He was tall, muscular, fair-haired, with a flawless skin that was of the perpetually tanned type. I've no doubt
Astronomers sat tensely at their telescopes, watching the doom that rushed down on Earth
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