46xxxx (016) The Kabbala

Which way did he go? That way! Down through the gob! This stone! So dark you can't see! Dr. Run! There! There! The bottom of the terrace! Professional bod! The bod! Why? Oh good dog! What is it? He must have fallen down the steps, broke at his neck!

He's dead! Midnight! The witching hour when the night is darkest. Our fears the strongest! youngest, and our strength at its lowest death, midnight, when the graves gave open that death strength.

How? You learn the answer in just a minute in the Kabbalah. And now, murdered at midnight, tales of mystery and terror by radio's masters of the macabre. Our Story by Robert Newman is the Kabbalah.

A rambling house on the outskirts of a small university town, and in the house, a room that seems more like the cell of a medieval alchemist than the study of a college professor. Its walls lined with ancient volumes and astrolabes and other curious instruments.

Bend over his desk, Dr. Rudd is not yet a knock on the door at first. But when it's repeated he says, come in. Alan's going, Father. You wanted to say goodnight to you. Oh, yes, Adam.

Goodnight. I was terribly sorry to hear about the decision of the Board of Trustees, sir. I mean, they're refusing to give you a grant to go on with your research. Oh, that's... Well, it doesn't matter.

I've about decided to give up the whole project anyway. Your book? Yes. Father, you're not serious. I thought you were almost finished with it. I am all with the last chapter. I just can't seem to write that without additional research.

And without the last chapter, I rest of the book is meaningless. Well, isn't there anyone you could talk to about it, sir, anyone who could help you? I doubt it, Alan. I think I know as much about the occult as anyone in the world, except perhaps one man. Who is that, Father? The man I studied under