There would be music from me-a brief song sometimes little more than a poem recited to the strumming of a small lute. And I played a little game of which no one else was aware-I tried to see how many.

Corrup- tion to come. The accelerated post-mortem development of the giant's character as if the latent elements of his personality had gained sufficient momentum during his life to discharge themselves in a brief final resume continued to fascinate me. It marked the beginning of the giant's surrender to that all-demanding system of time in which the rest of humanity finds itself and of which like the million.
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It was a warm spring night when a fist knocked at the door so hard that the hinges bent. A man opened it and peered out into the street. There was mist coming off the river and it was a cloudy night. He might as well have tried to see through white velvet. But he thought afterwards that there had been shapes out there just beyond the light spilling out into the road. A lot of shapes watching him carefully. He thought maybe there'd been very faint points of light . . . There was no mistaking the shape right in front of him though. It was big and dark red and looked like a child's clay model of a man. Its eyes were two embers. 'Well? What do you want at this time of night?' The golem handed him a slate on which was written: _WE HEAR YOU WANT A GOLEM. _ Of course golems.
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