"New York, September 30 CP FLASH

"Ambassador Holliwell died here today.  The end came
Suddenly as the ambassador was alone in his study...."
There is something ungodly about these night wire jobs. You sit up here on the top floor of a skyscraper and listen in to the whispers of a civilization. New York, London, Calcutta, Bombay, Singapore -- they're your next-door neighbors after the streetlights go dim and the world has gone to sleep.
Alone in the quiet hours between two and four, the receiving operators doze over their sounders and the news comes in. Fires and disasters and suicides. Murders, crowds, catastrophes. Sometimes an earthquake with a casualty list as long as your arm. The night wire man takes it down almost in his sleep, picking it off on his typewriter with one finger.
Once in a long time you prick up your ears and listen. You've heard of some one you knew in Singapore, Halifax or Paris, long ago. Maybe they've been promoted, but more probably they've been murdered or drowned. Perhaps they just decided to quit and took some bizarre way out. Made it interesting enough to get in the news.
But that doesn't happen often. Most of the times you sit and doze and tap, tap on your typewriter and wish you were home in bed.
Sometimes, though, queer things happen. One did the other night, and I haven't got over it yet. I wish I could.
You see, I handle the night manager's desk in a western seaport town; what the name is doesn't matter.
There is, or rather was, only one night operator on my staff, a fellow named John Morgan, about forty years of age, I should say, and a sober, hard-working sort.
He was one of the best operators I ever knew, what is known as a "double" man. That means he could handle two instruments at once and type the stories on different typewriters at the same time. He was one of the three men I ever knew who could do it consistently, hour after hour, and never make a mistake.
Generally, we used only one wire at night, but sometimes, when it was late and the news was coming fast, the Chicago and Denver stations would open a second wire, and then Morgan would do his stuff. He was a wizard, a mechanical automatic wizard which functioned marvelously but was without imagination.
On the night of the sixteenth he complained of feeling tired. It was the first and last time I had ever heard him say a word about him, and I had known him for three years.
It was just three o'clock and we were running only one wire. I was nodding over the reports at my desk and not paying much attention to him, when he spoke.
"Jim," he said, "does it feel close in here to you?"
"Why, no, John," I answered, "but I'll open a window if you like."
"Never mind," he said. "I reckon I'm just a little tired."
That was all that was said, and I went on working. Every ten minutes or so I would walk over and take a pile of copy that had stacked up neatly beside the typewriter as the messages were printed out in triplicate.
It must have been twenty minutes after he spoke that I noticed he had opened up the other wire and was using both typewriters. I thought it was a little unusual, as there was nothing very "hot" coming in. On my next trip I picked up the copy from both machines and took it back to my desk to sort out the duplicates.
The first wire was running out the usual sort of stuff and I just looked over it hurridly. Then I turned to the second pile of copy. I remembered it particularly because the story was from a town I had never heard of: "Xebico." Here is the dispatch. I saved a duplicate of it from our files:

"Xebico, Sept 16 CP BULLETIN

"The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled over
the town at 4 o'clock yesterday afternoon.  All traffic has
Stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything.  Lights
Of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is
Constantly growing heavier.

"Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and
The local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred
before in the history of the city.

"At 7 P.M. last night the municipal authorities...

That was all there was. Nothing out of the ordinary at a bureau headquarters, but, as I say, I noticed the story because of the name of the town.

It must have been fifteen minutes later that I went over for another batch of copy. Morgan was slumped down in his chair and had switched his green electric light shade so that the gleam missed his eyes and hit only the top of the two typewriters.
Only the usual stuff was in the righthand pile, but the lefthand batch carried another story from Xebico. All press dispatches come in "takes," meaning that parts of many different stories are strung along together, perhaps with but a few paragraphs of each coming through at a time. This second story was marked "add fog." Here is the copy:

"At 7 P.M. the fog had increased noticeably.  All lights

were now invisible and the town was shrouded in pitch darkness.

"As a peculiarity of the phenomenon, the fog is accompanied
by a sickly odor, comparable to nothing yet experienced
here."
Below that in customary press fashion was the hour, 3:27, and the initials of the operator, JM.
There was only one other story in the pile from the second wire. Here it is:

"2nd add Xebico Fog.

"Accounts as to the origin of the mist differ greatly.
Among the most unusual is that of the sexton of the local
church, who groped his way to headquarters in a hysterical
condition and declared that the fog originated in the village
churchyard.

"'It was first visible as a soft gray blanket clinging to
the earth above the graves,' he stated.  'Then it began to rise,
higher and higher.  A subterranean breeze seemed to blow it in
billows, which split up and then joined together again.

"'Fog phantoms, writhing in anguish, twisted the mist into
queer forms and figures.  And then, in the very thick midst of
the mass, something moved.

"'I turned and ran from the accursed spot.  Behind me I
heard screams coming from the houses bordering on the
graveyard.'

"Although the sexton's story is generally discredited, a
party has left to investigate.  Immediately after telling his
story, the sexton collapsed and is now in a local hospital,
unconscious."
Queer story, wasn't it. Not that we aren't used to it, for a lot of unusual stories come in over the wire. But for some reason or other, perhaps because it was so quiet that night, the report of the fog made a great impression on me.
It was almost with dread that I went over to the waiting piles of copy. Morgan did not move, and the only sound in the room was the tap-tap of the sounders. It was ominous, nerve- racking.
There was another story from Xebico in the pile of copy. I seized on it anxiously.

"New Lead Xebico Fog CP

"The rescue party which went out at 11 P.M. to investigate
a weird story of the origin of a fog which, since late
yesterday, has shrouded the city in darkness has failed to
return.  Another and larger party has been dispatched.

"Meanwhile, the fog has, if possible, grown heavier.  It
seeps through the cracks in the doors and fills the atmosphere
with a depressing odor of decay.  It is oppressive, terrifying,
bearing with it a subtle impression of things long dead.

"Residents of the city have left their homes and gathered
in the local church, where the priests are holding services of
prayer.  The scene is beyond description.  Grown folk and
children are alike terrified and many are almost beside
themselves with fear.

"Amid the whisps of vapor which partly veil the church
auditorium, an old priest is praying for the welfare of his
flock.  They alternately wail and cross themselves.

"From the outskirts of the city may be heard cries of
unknown voices.  They echo through the fog in queer uncadenced
minor keys.  The sounds resemble nothing so much as wind
whistling through a gigantic tunnel.  But the night is calm and
there is no wind.  The second rescue party... (more)"

I am a calm man and never in a dozen years spent with the wires, have I been known to become excited, but despite myself I rose from my chair and walked to the window.
Could I be mistaken, or far down in the canyons of the city beneath me did I see a faint trace of fog? Pshaw! It was all imagination.
In the pressroom the click of the sounders seemed to have raised the tempo of their tune. Morgan alone had not stirred from his chair. His head sunk between his shoulders, he tapped the dispatches out on the typewriters with one finger of each hand.
He looked asleep, but no; endlessly, efficiently, the two machines rattled off line after line, as relentlessly and effortlessly as death itself. There was something about the monotonous movement of the typewriter keys that fascinated me. I walked over and stood behind his chair, reading over his shoulder the type as it came into being, word by word.
Ah, here was another:

"Flash Xebico CP

"There will be no more bulletins from this office.  The
impossible has happened.  No messages have come into this room
for twenty minutes.  We are cut off from the outside and even
the streets below us.

"I will stay with the wire until the end.

"It is the end, indeed.  Since 4 P.M. yesterday the fog has
hung over the city.  Following reports from the sexton of the
local church, two rescue parties were sent out to investigate
conditions on the outskirts of the city.  Neither party has ever
returned nor was any word received from them.  It is quite
certain now that they will never return.

"From my instrument I can gaze down on the city beneath me.
From the position of this room on the thirteenth floor, nearly
the entire city can be seen.  Now I can see only a thick blanket
of blackness where customarily are lights and life.

"I fear greatly that the wailing cries heard constantly
from the outskirts of the city are the death cries of the
inhabitants.  They are constantly increasing in volume and are
approaching the center of the city.

"The fog yet hangs over everything.  If possible, it is
even heavier than before, but the conditions have changed.
Instead of an opaque, impenetrable wall of odorous vapor, there
now swirls and writhes a shapeless mass in contortions of almost
human agony.  Now and again the mass parts and I catch a brief
glimpse of the streets below.

"People are running to and fro, screaming in despair.  A
vast bedlam of sound flies up to my window, and above all is the
immense whistling of unseen and unfelt winds.

"The fog has again swept over the city and the whistling is
coming closer and closer.

"It is now directly beneath me.

"God!  An instant ago the mist opened and I caught a
glimpse of the streets below.

"The fog is not simply vapor -- it lives!  By the side of
each moaning and weeping human is a companion figure, an aura of
strange and vari-colored hues.  How the shapes cling!  Each to a
living thing!

"The men and women are down.  Flat on their faces.  The fog
figures caress them lovingly.  They are kneeling beside them.
They are -- but I dare not tell it.

"The prone and writhing bodies have been stripped of their
clothing.  They are being consumed -- piecemeal.

"A merciful wall of hot, steaming vapor has swept over the
whole scene.  I can see no more.

"Beneath me the wall of vapor is changing colors.  It seems
to be lighted by internal fires.  No, it isn't.  I have made a
mistake.  The colors are from above, reflections from the sky.

"Look up!  Look up!  The whole sky is in flames.  Colors as
yet unseen by man or demon.  The flames are moving; they have
started to intermix; the colors are rearranging themselves.
They are so brilliant that my eyes burn, they they are a long
way off.

"Now they have begun to swirl, to circle in and out,
twisting in intricate designs and patterns.  The lights are
racing each with each, a kaleidoscope of unearthly brilliance.

"I have made a discovery.  There is nothing harmful in the
lights.  They radiate force and friendliness, almost cheeriness.
But by their very strength, they hurt.

"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 of quintessence of all light.  Beneath it the
fog melts into a jeweled mist radiant, rainbow-colored of a
thousand varied spectra.

"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..."

You hear a Door open, perhaps three or four floors below you.  Vincent is coming.
He will not call out to you as he mounts the stairs, nor will he take any pains to conceal the sound of his steps.  You each know where the other is.  You each know what will happen if Vincent reaches you.
Vincent is coming, and it is almost time to leave.
You take inventory.  One standard sheaf of Travelers' Universal Currency.    One regulation Chromatic Coat.  (The one that Vincent gave you, as it happens.)  One Handheld Fire.  One knife.  (No capitalization for this one.  It's just a knife, though a very good one.)  One featureless Nearly White Disc.  Two tins of chocolate.  The photograph of Sophia.
You wish you didn't have to take the photograph with you, but you have no time to destroy it, and you can't let your pursuer find it.  Into the coat's voluminous pockets it goes, along with the rest of your gear, and the coat goes around your shoulders. 
You look around the room one more time - the birch paneled walls, the painting of Saturn devouring his children, the already stiffening body in the chair, and the bones of the fire on the hearth.  As Vincent's progress reaches your floor and starts to echo down the hall, you grasp the Nearly White Disk in your pocket and think very hard about your destination...

It has been three weeks since your people cast you out. Three weeks since you broke the covenant and laid with Atai'aj, your chieftain's partner. Three weeks since you bundled up what little you were allowed to take and left the only home you had ever known on the Tormal highlands. To the north there is only ice, the west, an impassable mountain, and to the east, a sheer cliff, so you went south, warmth guiding you towards the distant peaks of Guldaj, and a new life on your own. Your only comfort is the spear you carry, and the thought of the chieftain raising your son in place of his own.
It took you a week to wind your way down from the highlands, and another two following the river Janef to the bay of Fanek, which stands between you and the peaks of Guldaj in the distant, where it is said the spirits forgive those who break their covenants and lay with those they should not.
In the highlands, you knew how to hunt and gather the food you require to survive, and the river is large and bountiful, sustaining you as you traveled south. Now the bay stretches out before you, and the distant peaks look farther away than ever. Food here is strange, but plentiful, though you know that lingering in this place too long will allow the cold winds to come, and the prospects of surviving snowfall in the open without your people to support you look bleak.
A choice stands before you, and you must decide before long.

One step in front of the other. That's all it takes, one step, and another. You try not to think too hard — thinking about it just makes it worse.
The noise of the crowd gathered around the gallows mounts in anticipation as the executioner walks the row of prisoners towards the ramshackle wooden staircase leading up to the eerily identical set of nooses.
The cellmates to the front and back of you have visages both sunken and hard; deep in thought, the pair stares at their feet. Surprisingly similar, you think to yourself.  Almost a matched pair.
As your block of prisoners stops in front of the gibbet, you glance around, taking in the last few sights and sounds you're likely to absorb in your short life. At barely twenty-three, you wonder how you got yourself into this godforsaken mess. A few bad choices down the road; six months on a smuggling vessel in the Atlantic, another two in a prison in Algiers, and one too many "victimless" crimes along the way. At the rate you were going, you were bound to get caught sooner or later; you just kept hoping fervently to yourself that it would be later rather than sooner.
They had caught you at the docks, the last among team smuggling in muskets, gunpowder, tobacco and a variety of rare, expensive alcoholic beverages imported from the Indies and beyond. If only you had left first instead of last, you wouldn't be in this mess. Instead, you find yourself moments away from death's sweet embrace, recollecting the trials and tribulations of your wasted youth.
As your group's turn comes, the hangman calls for the five of you to step up onto the rickety stairs and take your assigned posts, one to each of five distinct nooses.
Hold on a minute. There are six of us here.
The men to the front and back of you press towards each other as the six bodies forming your group walk up the hastily build staircase. As you step onto the sixth step — barely five feet off the ground — you feel the step beneath your front foot give way, as the imposing man behind you gives you a shove. You fall into darkness, surprisingly unnoticed by the bloodthirsty crowd. As you tumble, your head hits a wall, and darkness engulfs you.
You come to your senses an indeterminate amount of time later. Shaking your head, your wits slowly come to you as you feel a distinct pain emanate from the side of your skull. A gentle touch leaves a wet, sticky substance on your left hand. Must have grazed something on the way down. Looking around cautiously, you see what appears to be candlelight flickering in the distance, off to your right.
You get up, groggy, but surprisingly nothing feels broken. A mild breeze plays at your unshorn locks from your left, wafting a rank, stagnant odor in your direction.

It was a cold night in camp as the chill of the night air settled around camp. Despite popular belief, the Sahara was prone to very cold air, especially near the coast. Arctic blasts would come out of the North Sea and blow across Europe, the Med and into the desert making the experience unpleasant at best.
Joey rubbed his hands together near the fire, his mind wandering back to his beautiful wife and son back home in Baltimore. Michelle was an Army wife and knew that she might receive a knock on the door at any time from a representative of the Army bringing the news she anticipated, but did not want to hear.
Joey, born Johan Frederickson to German immigrants in 1907, had entered the Army after he turned 18. The depression had set in and the Army was a means of providing for his aging family. After several years of distinguished service, the Army had taken steps to commission him as an officer. Just in time for the war.
As an American of German descent, he was an immediate asset to the Pentagon. In a bit of bureaucratic mismanagement, he had received orders to ship to Hawaii to support the Navy’s intelligence gathering operation there but that order was quickly replaced with his current assignment.
Joey leaned back against a pile of wood near the fire and listened to his German comrades quietly laugh and shared war stories of sexual victories they had exploited with women in numerous places.
But his thoughts were of back home with his wife. He missed her so much and just wanted to hold her and tell her he wouldn’t be leaving to go off to war again. Soon enough, he thought to himself. I just need to get through this mission and figure out what the Desert Fox had planned.
Joey had been on this god-forsaken assignment for 6 months now. The United States had people inside the German Army. Close people. Advisors to Hitler, even. Somehow, he had pulled this assignment to pose as a German soldier in Rome’s 5th Light Division. His German heritage and fluency in the language were perfect for such an inside job. His orders constituted a very broad, yet precise sentence:
Gather information around military plans in place by the German forces in North Africa.
It would be easier if the Germans were talking, but no one was. Rome did not share his plans with his troops. He would still be here awhile.