City of Sleep

From the heart of the jungle comes a savage cry of victory. This is Tarzan, Lord of the Jungle. From the black core of dark Africa, land of enchantment, mystery and violence comes one of the most colorful figures of all time.

Transcribed from the immortal pen of Edgar Rice Burroughs. Tarzan, the bronzed white son of the jungle. And now in the very words of Mr. Burroughs, the story of city of sleep. The mingles sent of animals and of man was strong.

Tarzan's body tensed as he peered down from the topmost branch of a gargantuan k-pock tree. Then he relaxed. For the animals, a pack of giant African warthogs, although the most hideous of the jungle creatures, seldom attacked.

And the man who broke through the clearing was Captain Lawrence, who was well able to take care of himself. But was he? He seemed like one in a trance, and the animals had suddenly realized his helplessness.

They swarmed on him, their ponderous bodies knocking into the ground, their hook tusks tearing in his flesh. Tarzan grasped the vine and strung himself down into the melee. His life flashed and darted and stabbed as though he were a dozen men.

Is that dozen? Huh. The one standing up is Tarzan, those on the ground are dead warthogs. Eh. Where did they come from? Where did they come from? Another moment and they would have shredded your body as they have your uniform.

Huh. It is. Taran isn't a captain. Lawrence, what's wrong with you? What's happened to you? Nothing. But brings you to El Khadi, Tarzan, to El Khadi, but we are hundreds of miles from there. We are?