Excerpt from The Golden Blight
Under the softly diffused glow of the library lamp, shaded with priceless glass dug from the ruins of Heliopolis - glass rendered opalescent by three thou sand years of burial in the Egyptian sands - the last sheet of John Storms weekly report fluttered to rest upon the table. Storm leaned back and looked old Murchison full in the face.
"That's all, so far," the scientist concluded, and for a moment drew with unspeakable satisfaction at the moist black cigar that Murchison had handed him at the beginning of the conference.
"Of course at this stage of the game there's no telling what the next reaction may or may not produce. But for the present, so far as I can report this evening, that's all."
Murchison sat silent, thinking a bit before commenting.
His white, rather blunt fingers, on which he wore only a single plain ring of massive Roman gold, nervously tapped the arm of the huge morris chair that held his small, lean figure.
"H-m!" he grunted.
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