He was right. The stench of dead things came crawling upward to meet them. Soon the floor was littered with the things from Opal's sea that had crept here to die. Huge, fanged saurians, lizards, toads, snakes. The cave was strewn with their carcasses, some half-decayed, others drying into hardened shells, others already reduced to stinking bones and sinew. * * * * * Gunnar kicked several out of the way as he made a trail for Odin to follow. The short man did not tire. He went on and on at his steady shuffling gait which left the miles behind, while Odin's pack and rifle grew heavier and heavier. But Gunnar did not stop. So Jack gritted his teeth and stumbled after him, while the dead things grinned at them from the dark. At last they saw a reddish light ahead. Gunnar paused and pointed with a gnarled forefinger. "Opal ahead. All that is left of it." They came out upon a narrow ledge high up in the cliff wall. Odin filled his lungs with clear air and gasped at the changes. Above them the little sun had dwindled to a red coal. The crimson-flecked clouds of Opal steamed and boiled beneath it. The sluggish sea was black now, and the long low waves were crested with bloody foam. Something was choking in his throat. All the wealth of June-land had spilled over into the night. Gone, all gone! And for what reason? It was not enough to say that time, and gravity worked against the things of men's hands. It was not enough to say that all good things must pass. No, here was Old Loki the Mischief-maker at work. The one who destroyed for no reason at all--who ran through space like quicksilver and laughed as blossoms and leaves, towers and trees, the old and the young, fell before his senseless jests. Tears came to Odin's eyes as he looked out there at the ruins and remembered the splendor that had been. As he thought of all who had died there, his hands were begging for the feel of Grim Hagen's throat. Darkling he stood there on that narrow ledge and thought how strange he and Gunnar must seem. Like two trolls peering out of Hell's Gate. As though fanned by a tiny wind the red coal of a sun flamed up. Out there, far away, its red beams flashed upon the topmost turrets of the Tower. They bathed it in reddish light, and it loomed halfway out of the slate-black sea like something left alone in a ruined world. An emblem of man's pride and his love for beautiful things, it stood there bravely and held back the night. There were tears in Gunnar's eyes also. Nearly two heads shorter than Odin, he stood beside him and clutched the taller man's forearm with a huge, gnarled hand.