Father, he said. Can you tell me a story? I want to hear of heroes and glory.

Fire crackled and shadow danced across the father's face who glanced

at the innocent eyes of his son.

There's one, my child. And bittersweetly he smiled,

for memory brought much grief and joy.

He saw him then—no longer a boy; perhaps he was ready to know

how high and low their kindred sought for that salvation which they thought

might bring them hope again.

One day will this tale too being to pass beyond recall,

but ere all men by fate forget those hands in past their future set

this myth must still be told—before the earth grows dark and cold,

lest the truth be lost.

For great was the cost their forebears took, to wield the ancient pow'r that shook

the world from endless hell.

So thus the man began to tell the myst'ry of the Plasmythos:

Our history and our fountainhead, that gave us chance of life, he said.

It starts in lands of fading grace—far from now in time and space . . .

when Meridian dawns the light of burning days at Pulsar's end.