Tunnel Under The World
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On the morning of June 15th, Guy Burckhardt woke up screaming. He sat up convulsively and stared, not believing. This is the way this book starts out and only gets stranger. What you learn at the end of the book will BLOW your mind!!!
15th? But that’s today! I mean—” “You got it, friend. It’s always today!” It took time to penetrate. Burckhardt said wonderingly, “You’ve hidden out in that darkroom for how many weeks?” “How can I tell? Four or five, maybe. I lost count. And every day the same—always the 15th of June, always my landlady, Mrs. Keefer, is sweeping the front steps, always the same headline in the papers at the corner. It gets monotonous, friend.” IV It was Burckhardt’s idea and Swanson despised it, but
office, large and sumptuous. It had a desk, littered with papers. Burckhardt stared at them, briefly at first—then, as the words on one of them caught his attention, with incredulous fascination. He snatched up the topmost sheet, scanned it, and another, while. Swanson was frenziedly searching through the drawers. Burckhardt swore unbelievingly and dropped the papers to the desk. Swanson, hardly noticing, yelped with delight: “Look!” He dragged a gun from the desk. “And it’s loaded, too!”
phoned, that’s all. He’ll be in tomorrow.” “Maybe he went to the plant. It’s right near his house.” She looked indifferent. “Yeah.” A thought struck Burckhardt. “But today is June 15th! It’s quarterly tax return day—he has to sign the return!” Miss Mitkin shrugged to indicate that that was Burckhardt’s problem, not hers. She returned to her nails. Thoroughly exasperated, Burckhardt went to his desk. It wasn’t that he couldn’t sign the tax returns as well as Barth, he thought resentfully. It
cooler, some showers. Barometric pressure thirty point zero four, rising… United States Weather Bureau forecast for June 15th. Warm and sunny, with high around—” He hung the phone up. June 15th. “Holy heaven!” Burckhardt said prayerfully. Things were very odd indeed. He heard the ring of his wife’s alarm and bounded up the stairs. Mary Burckhardt was sitting upright in bed with the terrified, uncomprehending stare of someone just waking out of a nightmare. “Oh!” she gasped, as her husband
because she was tearing a June 14th pad off her calendar to make way for the “new” June 15th sheet. He staggered to his own desk and stared unseeingly at the morning’s mail. It had not even been opened yet, but he knew that the Factory Distributors envelope contained an order for twenty thousand feet of the new acoustic tile, and the one from Finebeck & Sons was a complaint. After a long while, he forced himself to open them. They were. By lunchtime, driven by a desperate sense of urgency,