Twenty-five hundred spectators stared aghast, as the sonorous voice of Rodney Blaine was suddenly cut short by death, at his new premiere. And Lt. Detective Burke had to change the murder-master’s script before the stage was set for the next killing!
It's never quiet in the subways in New York City, but inasmuch as there can be a quiet moment in that filthy place, Blake and Helen were standing there, on the platform, quietly waiting for their train . . . and then, in a moment, the place went wild. Then the weirdness started -- at first, it was just a pulsing sound, like the deep note of some colossal organ somewhere in the tunnels not too far away. Then, as the sound grew loud enough to make his teeth itch, the subway tunnels erupted in quivering ribbons of blinding green flame. Blake wrapped his arms around Helen, to protect her from the strangely explosive light -- and the flames caught them. And carried them away. Through the tunnels as though they were made of stardust -- up, up, into the sky. And into the beyond.
Deep in that dismal swamp dwelt an abysmal Thing, a monstrous being of ooze, gloating in its perfume of cadavers...ExcerptThe last rays of an unseen sun had faded until the wooded swamp was a fogshrouded monochrome of somber shadows and swirling vapors. The dank chill of slime-wet air seeped coldly through the darkening gray mists. Larry Kent shivered and turned the collar of his coat higher around his neck. Kent's deeply tanned face was grimly intent as he tried vainly to peer ahead through the murky gloom. Hidden cells deep within his sensitive brain quivered to the stimulus of a familiar and eerie warning. Somewhere in that chill curtain of twilight fog, Fear lurked, naked and abysmal! Larry Kent had spent too many years in the dark corners of the world to ever be mistaken in that weirdly menacing aura of incarnate terror. He had felt it in the cold stone cells of North China where shuddering coolies waited wretchedly for dawn and the headsman's sword. He had sensed it in the sweating midnight of an African jungle kraal where close-packed blacks groveled in abject fear as Om-Jok, the Devil-God, stalked thundering through the night.
The Beast demon of the Yucatan fosters a dread series of murderous horrors! Excerpt"Stop here!" There was a vibrant note of nervous tension in Karl Reisner's command. I brought the car to a skidding stop in the lose sand of the narrow roadway.Reisner and Allan Grove were sitting in the back seat. I got a glimpse of Reisner's face in the rearview mirrort. His features had always been gaunt and pallid. Now in the faintly reflected moonlight his face was the bleached white of a naked skull. "There's the Herron place," Reisner said, his voice so low that it was a husking whisper. "Now what I meant?" I stared out across the narrow moonlit valley that separated us from the hilltop estate of the late Gordon Herron. Tiny ripples of dread ran along my spine. Alice shivered and her slim fingers were cold in mine as she huddled closer against my shoulder.Since I had last seen the isolated hill country home of Gordon Herron it had changed insidiously. The four of us sat staring across the valley in taut silence. I believe the same thought was in all our minds-the memory of Gordon Herron's recent death, the weird horror of the manner in which he had died.
By using a sinister fiery-eyed feline to solve a mystery, Patrolman Clancy proves black cats are unlucky-for killers! Note: very shortexcerptBeyond the glow of the streetlights along Barton Street's unlovely length, the night was dark with the blackness of the first hour after midnight. The cheery whistle died upon the lips of Patrolman Michael J. Clancy as he turned the corner to start the second half of his nightly prowl. Clancy had a grim and deadly premonition. Somewhere in those darkly deserted blocks ahead of him, Satan would be waiting for him tonight. The thought sent the reddish-gray hairs on the back of Clancy's broad, sun-burned neck bristling eerily erect. It was not that Patrolman Clancy was lacking in the matter of courage. If it had been merely a few gunsels lurking in the shadows of Barton Street, Mike would have barged cheerfully into battle with his blue eyes blazing, his night-stick lustily swinging, and his Police Positive spitting lead-if he remembered to draw it, which he seldom did in moments of emergency. Satan, however, was a menace of another and quite different color. You can't use a night-stick on a banshee, and .38 calibre slugs are of little value against a leprechaun. Satan was one-third banshee, one-third leprechaun, and four-thirds devil-and if you said that those figures seemed to add up to a slightly incredible total, Clancy would tell you that you simply didn't know your Irish arithmetic.
Beginning with Charlie Chaplin's Shoulder Arms, released in America near the end of World War I, the military comedy film has been one of Hollywood's most durable genres. This generously illustrated history examines over 225 Army, Navy and Marine-related comedies produced between 1918 and 2009, including the abundance of laughspinners released during World War II in the wake of Abbott and Costello's phenomenally successful Buck Privates (1941), and the many lighthearted service films of the immediate postwar era, among them Mister Roberts (1955) and No Time for Sergeants (1958). Also included are discussions of such subgenres as silent films (The General), military-academy farces (Brother Rat), women in uniform (Private Benjamin), misfits making good (Stripes), anti-war comedies (MASH), and fact-based films (The Men Who Stare at Goats). A closing filmography is included in this richly detailed volume.
A corpse lashed to the back of an alligator and a beautiful girl in evening clothes give Bill Cory the shock of his life!excerptThe old codger's name was Eph Carson, and he was looking for a general handyman to work on a small mountain ranch out in the high country north of Los Angeles. I met him at the United States Employment Office in town. Our little talk was going along just dandy when suddenly the old man dropped a blockbuster out of a clear sky. "I hope you ain't got anything against lizards, son," he said casually. I couldn't have straightened up in my chair any quicker than if he had given me the hotfoot with a flame-thrower. I was just back from a three-year hitch with the Marines in the South Pacific. Most of that time had been spent in places where the principal kinds of animal life are lizards and more lizards. You find the scaly little varmints in your morning cup of Java. You find them nibbling your K-rations at noon. And after you have hit the sack for the night, you find them snugly parked between your shoulder blades. "Mister," I said, "if it is a choice between a lizard and a slight case of double pneumonia, I will take the pneumonia." The old man grinned. "Take it easy, son," he cackled. "I was just funnin' you. The only lizard around the ranch is Oswald, and you won't have to do no takin' care of him. Oswald's my baby.
An argument that contagion is the most significant risk facing the financial system and that Dodd¬Frank has reduced the government's ability to respond effectively. The Dodd–Frank Act of 2010 was intended to reform financial policies in order to prevent another massive crisis such as the financial meltdown of 2008. Dodd–Frank is largely premised on the diagnosis that connectedness was the major problem in that crisis—that is, that financial institutions were overexposed to one another, resulting in a possible chain reaction of failures. In this book, Hal Scott argues that it is not connectedness but contagion that is the most significant element of systemic risk facing the financial system. Contagion is an indiscriminate run by short-term creditors of financial institutions that can render otherwise solvent institutions insolvent. It poses a serious risk because, as Scott explains, our financial system still depends on approximately $7.4 to $8.2 trillion of runnable and uninsured short-term liabilities, 60 percent of which are held by nonbanks. Scott argues that efforts by the Federal Reserve, the FDIC, and the Treasury to stop the contagion that exploded after the bankruptcy of Lehman Brothers lessened the economic damage. And yet Congress, spurred by the public's aversion to bailouts, has dramatically weakened the power of the government to respond to contagion, including limitations on the Fed's powers as a lender of last resort. Offering uniquely detailed forensic analyses of the Lehman Brothers and AIG failures, and suggesting alternative regulatory approaches, Scott makes the case that we need to restore and strengthen our weapons for fighting contagion.
He sat in a small half-darkened booth well over in the corner-the man with the strangely glowing blue-green eyes.The booth was one of a score that circled the walls of the "Maori Hut," a popular night club in the San Fernando Valley some five miles over the hills from Hollywood.It was nearly midnight. Half a dozen couples danced lazily in the central dancing space. Other couples remained t te- -t te in the secluded booths.In the entire room only two men were dining alone. One was the slender gray-haired little man with the weirdly glowing eyes. The other was Blair Gordon, a highly successful young attorney of Los Angeles. Both men had the unmistakable air of waiting for someone.Blair Gordon's college days were not so far distant that he had yet lost any of the splendid physique that had made him an All-American tackle. In any physical combat with the slight gray-haired stranger, Gordon knew that he should be able to break the other in two with one hand.Yet, as he studied the stranger from behind the potted palms that screened his own booth. Gordon was amazed to find himself slowly being overcome by an emotion of dread so intense that it verged upon sheer fear. There was something indescribably alien and utterly sinister in that dimly seen figure in the corner booth.The faint eerie light that glowed in the stranger's deep-set eyes was not the lambent flame seen in the chatoyant orbs of some night-prowling jungle beast. Rather was it the blue-green glow of phosphorescent witch-light that flickers and dances in the night mists above steaming tropical swamps.The stranger's face was as classically perfect in its rugged outline as that of a Roman war-god, yet those perfect features seemed utterly lifeless. In the twenty minutes that he had been intently watching the stranger, Gordon would have sworn that the other's face had not moved by so much as the twitch of an eye-lash.****Then a new couple entered the Maori Hut, and Gordon promptly forgot all thought of the puzzlingly alien figure in the corner. The new arrivals were a vibrantly beautiful blond girl and a plump, sallow-faced man in the early forties. The girl was Leah Keith, Hollywood's latest screen sensation. The man was Dave Redding, her director.A waiter seated Leah and her escort in a booth directly across the room from that of Gordon. It was a maneuver for which Gordon had tipped lavishly when he first came to the Hut.A week ago Leah Keith's engagement to Blair Gordon had been abruptly ended by a trivial little quarrel that two volatile temperaments had fanned into flames which apparently made reconciliation impossible. A miserably lonely week had finally ended in Gordon's present trip to the Maori Hut. He knew that Leah often came there, and he had an overwhelming longing to at least see her again, even though his pride forced him to remain unseen.Now, as he stared glumly at Leah through the palms that effectively screened his own booth, Gordon heartily regretted that he had ever come. The sight of Leah's clear fresh beauty merely made him realize what a fool he had been to let that ridiculous little quarrel come between them.Then, with a sudden tingling thrill, Gordon realized that he was not the only one in the room who was interested in Leah and her escort.Over in the half-darkened corner booth the eerie stranger was staring at the girl with an intentness that made his weird eyes glow like miniature pools of shimmering blue-green fire. Again Gordon felt that vague impression of dread, as though he were in the presence of something utterly alien to all human experience.
Astounding Stories of Super-Science (Vol. V No. 1 January, 1931); pulp science fiction and horror.In this issue:“The Dark Side of Antri” by Sewell Peaslee Wright“The Sunken Empire” by H. Thompson Rich“The Gate to Xoran” by Hal K. Wells“The Eye of Allah” by C. D. Willard“The Fifth-Dimension Catapault” by Murray Leinster(A Complete Novelette.)"The Pirate Planet" by Charles W. Diffin(Part Three of a Four-Part Novel.)
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