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evaporated upon the wind。 The last wrangling voice of them had been chilled down to silence。
But not quite the last。
〃Then who created THEM？〃 the Smith bellowed； hurling forth the question like a challenge to the universe； at the top of his aching； newly perishable lungs。
He looked ahead。
There was something； or someone； lying in wait for him； beyond that last convoluted corner of black rock。 Some new power； or ancient one； e to claim the world？ Or only the wind？
He was afraid to look。
The whole world was cold now。 The Smith could feel the awful cold turning against him； feel it as easily and painfully as the weakest human might。
He wanted to look around the corner of the rock； but he could not。 He was afraid。 Just in front of him； volcanic heat and gas belched up； turning snow and ice into black slush in a moment。
Vulcan lurched forward； seeking warmth。 He fell on his hands and knees。 Dying； in what seemed to him the first cold morning of the world； he groped for fire。
THE END
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