I watched every night, and the stars disappeared faster and faster. The thing seemed to increase at a geometric rate. Soon the sky was just filled with little lights going out, faster than you could count. Almost all of it could be seen with the naked eye now, because it was getting a lot closer to us. In two weeks the only part of the Milky Way left were the Magallenic clouds, and the astronomers said that they weren't a part of our galaxy anyhow. Betelguese and Actares and Rigel winked out, and Sirius and Vega. Then Alpha Centauri disappeared, and that was our closest neighbor. Aside from the moon, the sky was pretty bare at night, just a few dots and patches here and there. I don't know what would have happened if the voice hadn't been heard then. It would be anybody's guess. But the voice came the day after Alpha Centauri vanished. * * * * * I first heard it on my way to the store. I was walking down Lexington Avenue from the 59th Street station, looking in the dress windows to see what my competitors had to offer. Just as I was passing _Mary-Belle's Frocks_, and wondering how soon they'd have their Summer line in, I heard it. It was a pleasant voice, friendly. It seemed to come from just behind me, about three feet over my shoulder. "_Judgment of the inhabitants of the planet Earth_," it said, "_will be held in five days. Please prepare yourselves for final examination and departure. This announcement will be repeated._" I looked around at once to find out who was speaking. I half-expected to find a tall, cadaverous fanatic at my shoulder, some fiery-eyed fellow with flowing hair and a beard. But there was no one at all. The nearest person was about fifteen feet from me. For a moment I thought I was having a hallucination, hearing voices, that sort of thing. Then I saw that everyone else must have heard it, too. Lexington Avenue is a pretty busy place at nine o'clock in the morning. There are plenty of people hurrying back and forth, kids going to school, subways roaring beneath you, cars and buses honking. Not now. You couldn't hear a sound. Every car had stopped, right where it was. The people on the sidewalks seemed frozen practically in mid-stride. The man nearest me walked up. He was well-dressed, about my age--in his early forties. He was eyeing me with suspicion, as though I might have been responsible for the whole thing. I suppose I was looking at him in the same way. "Did you hear it?" he asked me. "Yes," I said. "Did you do it?" "No. Did you?" "Most certainly not," he said indignantly. We stood for a few seconds, just looking at each other. I think we--everybody--knew, right there and then, that it was no hoax. What with the stars disappearing, I mean. A pretty girl in a fur coat walked up to me. She was young; she looked scared, and very defiant. "Did you hear it?" she asked us. "Yes," I said, and the man nodded.