Each night the dream comes, and I sink submerged into another mind, an alien form which toils in metal chambers cold, bizarre, amidst the teeming warren of a nightmare realm where insect- mages strive to pen below some monstrous peril scarcely glimpsed or named, which gnaweth ever the foundations of the world... O, Mother, Mother, ever the same dark dream!

Perched on the giddy brink of vertiginous chasms, elaborate metallic structures tremble and sway to subterranean tremors from beneath. Untiringly, we mages seek and search the pentacle- inscribed plates and scrolls fetched hither from far worlds and fabulous, but without finding that for which we seek. The ground shakes. We ignore it, and search on.

My nine claws trace inexplicable hieroglyphs acid-etched in perdurable metal. Through odd- angled apertures pour diverse solar colors in five distinct luminosities. Crouched on my prism, I ponder cantrips to hold at bay the bleached and viscous swine-snouted worms. On Nython and Mthura, my brethren barter for more potent ensorcellments. For lack of these must the Nug-Soth perish in the foundering of intricate metal cities? Alas, the Mother remains indifferent as to which of the races of her minions triumph!

For ages and ages beyond all reckoning have the great Dhole-things lurked beneath, in noisome burrows where they fed and grew, waxed huge and strong beyond belief. Now are their black and fetid nests below no longer large enough to any more contain such prodigious progeny. They thrust and lurch against the walls of thought-projected force that held at bay for aeons interminable the Doom of Yaddith. And the walls give way...

Through labyrinthine streets, under the burning suns, we gather to the meeting-place of minds. There the Arch-Ancient One exhorts of us redoubled labors holding strong the force which walls away the squirming burrow-spawn. And once again we float to dimmest Xoth, and trans-galactic Stronti. But in vain...

Sheathed in bent light, we drift to Kythamil or Kath. The fungoid intelligences of Nzoorl repulse our entreaties. Even should we migrate to a world remote from this, the snouted worms can track us through our dreams which call like beacons through the eldritch dark... Nor can our cantrips any more suffice to hold at bay the loathed, unwholesome Dholes we never shall escape or long elude!

Our far-fled brethren, empty of hand, return from Yarnak and from ill-rumored Ymar, and terrible Shaggai. They voyaged far to Vhoorl in the remotest nebulae, to Zaoth and Ktynga, and, at last, remotest Phenoth beyond space itself, where rules the Crawling Chaos. They return fetching not hither that for which they sought -- the runes to keep the gruesome worm-things pent.

From world to world our brother-mages went for stronger spells, ever more potent runes; and on cold Abbith, where the Metal Brains in crystal caverns cogitate long ages by, they learned a fearful lore: the spells arcane for which we quest were known of old on Yith and Yith is perished untold eons past... Ever we toil on under the five-hued light, knowing at last there is not any hope.

Under the shuddering aurorae of the north, where glaciers crawl the meteor strewn waste, the thought-waves bring to us a tale of doom for City Three is fallen, fallen... No more the larvae in the breeding-pits shall mewl and slither, the Nug-Soth no more may stroll the broad metallic esplanade, nor mages ponder tomes of elder lore. For City Three is fallen, fallen...

No more are the departure-stages thronged. Now in their thousands are the Nug-Soth fled, armoured in closed light against the bitter cold and utter blackness that yawns between the stars. The metal pavement quavers underfoot, the broken towers totter toward collapse. I am among the very last to leave. For few remain to hold the Dhole-swarm back.