dissabte, 31 de maig de 2014

divendres, 30 de maig de 2014

FROM THE AUTHOR OF BIKINI PLANET....A CLASSIC OF ECLIPSES IN SCI-FI BOOKS - TIME IN ECLIPSE

Erik Graff
  Erik Graff rated it 2 SOCRATES of 5 stars
Recommends it for SEGURO: no one
Recommended to Erik by ANTONIO COSTA: no one
Shelves: sf
"A ruined Earth is the battleground for people and creatures from various periods in the planet’s history, everything from ancient warriors to high tech superweapons."--not very good. Picked up at the paperback exchange store near Mother's apartment in Oslo, Norway.
ATILLA XXI TAKEN OFFENSE BY NAPOLEON XIV THAT COLLECT TAXES IN ONE VILLAGE WITH 12 PEOPLE 
THE TWO ARMIES OF MEDIEVAL SOLDIERS AND KNIGHTS BEGIN TO FIGHT BUT BLACK GIANTS OF 8 FEET AND PYGMY  PEOPLE DESTROY THE TWO ARMIES...
 
ZULU ANDROIDS ...SURFACERS UND WITCHERS? VIGIAM A SUPERFÍCIE DE UMA TERRA MEDIEVALIZADA POR VÂNDALOS.... 


David S. Garnett (born 1947) is a UK science fiction author and editor whose novels include
 Cosmic Carousel, Stargonauts

 and Bikini Planet. 

Jessica
Mar 17, 2013 Jessica rated it 5 of 5 stars
Recommends it for: No one
Shelves: 2013
 is a gem of a book worthy of the highest literary praise. The writing is amazing. I wouldn't be surprised is Garnett won many awards for this book. His writing style is so unique, words can't DESCRIBE the talent that is there. The plot is riveting. In fact, the story-line will leave you speechless. This book brought me to tears. I cannot describe the characterization of Wayne Norton or the page-turning dialogue. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before in
a published book. You'll just have to find out for yourself how stunning this book really is.
Jay Michaels
"No trees, no paper. Apart from the most ancient and precious volumes, books were recycled for more basic human needs."

Norton wakes up and just accepts all the changes, including space travel and aliens. 
He barely questioned anything, since he saw it on television it just had to be true. How he got there, how the world got to this point and who are these strange beings and worlds, are simply accepted. These are things that most people would be asking a lot of questions about. The author, David Garnett, never explains things to the reader and things quickly continue downhill from there.

Norton's story gets interrupted by the introduction of a new character a woman named Kiru. It totally disrupted the flow of the story, it felt very unconnected and confusing making no sense or contribution to anything else in the book. Much too late in the book, the connection between the two characters is finally made; too little, too late.

Overall it felt like the author created this story but wasn't sure what to do with it, he added elements trying to stretch it out, as if hoping to find something that would work. The book never gels, it ambles on with no direction, no purpose, a confusing mishmash that I kept reading in hopes that it had to be going somewhere or get pulled together somehow. Books normally give you a sense of direction, taking the reader on a journey, fitting together pieces and characters as you go along, this book doesn't do that. Granted this was a farce, which maybe I just didn't get it, but you still need to guide the reader to some understanding. Sadly, the anticlimactic ending is a huge let down that leaves the reader shaking their head and thinking, "Is this it, seriously?!" Matter of fact Garnett gives the reader multiple endings, three of them, none of which are rewarding for the reader. The title has nothing to do with the book until the very end and adds nothing to the understanding of the book.

Writing this review was so frustratingly difficult, trying to explain how confusing and convoluted this book was and reminding me that I felt like I was lost in a void of nothingness. This is definitely a case of the book not living up to its cover. I gave it 1 star for the premise.
Bikini Planet (2000) by David Garnett.

I confess, I picked this up because I needed some light summer reading, and let's face it, the title made me chuckle. _Bikini Planet_ isn't bad, but halfway through, the tongue-tied 21 year old native Las Vegas cop suddenly morphs into a talkative British chap. Then Garnett leaves the reader with not one, not two, but *three* different endings to the story. Despite the title, I wouldn't recommend this as a "beach read."

(August 2007)
Sarah
  Sarah rated it 1 of 5 stars
This is, by far, the worst book I have ever read. I choose this book because the blurbs on the cover said it was the next "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." With that loftly comparison in mind, I sat down to read the book. There was no comparison, and the statement just highlighted the fact that this book was awful.
Jed
  rated it 3 of 5 stars
quite fun to read
Jim Gavin
rated it 1 of 5 stars
I actually didn't finish this one. So many poor choices. The hilarious non-blurb from Neil Gaiman should've warned me not to bother but I thought he was just trying to be funny.
Carlos Arsenio Garcia
Jun 09, 2013 Carlos Arsenio Garcia rated it 1 of 5 stars
Amongst the boring dialgoue, forgettable characters, and horrible plot this books has almost nothing going for it except weird alien sex.
 In the swinging sixties, Las vegas rookie cop Wayne Norton was a straight arrow - though not exactly the sharpest one in the quiver. Then his girlfriend's mafioso father threw him into an experimental cryogenic sleep chamber - and forgot to leave a wake-up call. Wayne is revived 300 years later, in a world where nothing is as it seems, everyone treats him like an incompetent dolt, and he's very, very confused. All in all, not much has changed.

Now, drafted into the elite organization GalactiCop, Norton is sent into the middle of a ruthless war for dominion over the galaxy's most prozed vacation hot spot - and its babe-filled beaches. His weapons are a complete mystery to him. His training is terribly minimal. And his mission...

Well, he hasn't quite figured that one out yet.


He edited a paperback anthology revival of Michael Moorcock's New Worlds magazine, two Zenith anthologies of original British SF stories, and three Orbit Science Fiction Yearbooks


Stargonauts

  • Author: David Garnett
  • Posted: Oct 09, 1995BOOK FROM 94....
  • Newsgroups: aus.sf
  • Sid & Nancy scale: Cheap Buck Rogers films, wires and all.
  • One of the well-known problems with catching public transport to work is its unreliability. One of the less well-known problems is exemplified by this book. My tram was late, or early, or something, so I had some time to kill. I wander into the bookshop that is conveniently near the tram stop and (in what must be collusion with the Met) open late to offer a respite from the weather for those left stranded by the Met's capriciousness. I pick up STARGONAUTS. It looks interesting, in a Pratchett kind of way. It has glowing tributes from Gibson, Moorcock, Aldiss. It promised, according to these august gentlemen, to be "Gonzo", "Zany", "Tacky". It was under five bucks, so I though, "what the heck. Gotta experiment if you want to find anything new." Mistake.
    This is a Not book. Not funny. Not interesting. Not deep. Not consistant. Not even well written. Not (by my estimation) originally written as a novel, either, for there are cliffhangers aplenty. Everything bad about cheap matinee movies, without the redeeming feature of being 30 years old.
    And definitely Not worth five bucks.

    dijous, 29 de maig de 2014

    ALERTE AUX ROBOTS - LE PEUR DE L'EXTINCTION - FLEUVE NOIR -1952- JEAN-GASTON VENDELElectron-degenerate, pressure-ionized hydrogen (usually referred to as metallic hydrogen) is the principal constituent of brown dwarfs, the long-sought objects which lie in the mass range between the lowest-mass stars (about eighty times the mass of Jupiter) and the giant planets. The thermodynamics and transport properties of metallic hydrogen are important for understanding the properties of these objects, which, unlike stars, continually and slowly cool from initial nondegenerate (gaseous) states

    WUC 512 FROM KING ROBOTS WINS BY K.O. KAT-519-7

    FABRIQUÉ POUR DEMOCRAT - BIG-CIRCUS SPRING OF 3750

    PEOPLE BUILD BIG BLOCKS OF THOUSAND FEET LONG TO LIVE IN IT

    AND 15 ÉTAGES OR FLOORS WITH AVIATION LANES IN THE TOP

    AND ROADS AU-DESSOUS SUBTERRANEAN ROADS 

    L'anarchie la plus complète régnait dans le pays.
     La paralysie totale des cités avait désorganisé toute l'activité humaine et disloqué l'ordre social.      Partout à la fois, le conflit prit un nouveau visage.
     Les hommes virent apparaître avec épouvante des détachements de
    robots tueurs qui les prenaient en chasse.
     Infatigables, d'une force extraordinaire, ces automates à apparence humaine traquaient les vrais hommes, les poursuivaient, les assassinaient avec un calme incroyable..

    RAIOS TÉRMICOS DEMOS O TRATAMENTO CLÁSSICO PAR UN CASO DE GRIPE

    MAS O MÉDICO ROBOT DO BLOCO PRENDEU-O E COMEÇOU A IRRADIÁ-LO

    COM RAIOS-X MAS ANTES DE ATINGIR 400 ROENTGENS DE DOSE

    O TIPO SAFA-SE

    SÓ EM JANVIER 3500 OS POLÍTICOS DA GAMMA ALTA SÃO SUBSTITUÍDOS

    POR CÉREBROS ELECTRÓNICOS CADA UM NO SEU PISO PRÓPRIO

    E CADA PISO FAZ O SERVIÇO DE TODO O MINISTÉRIO

    EM 3600 TODOS OS SERVIÇOS SÃO CONTROLADOS POR MÁQUINAS

    O CENTER WORLD BRAIN IN JOE ISLAND SOMEWHERE IN THE PACIFIC

    FURNITURE OF PLASTICAL

    AUXILECS UND CÉREBROS ASSASSINOS

    CAUSARAM 28 MORTOS LOGO A ESTA TAXA DE MORTICÍNIO

    INDA VAI DEMORAR SÉCULOS A DAR CABO DE TODOS OS HUMANOS

    PASSEIOS MÓVEIS DE 14 E 18 KM SOFREM ACELERAÇÕES BRUTAIS MATANDO

    TOUT LE MONDE AUX DESSOUS BIEN, SEULEMENT UNS MILHARES DELES

    QUADROS DE PLASTICAL

    BANHEIRAS DE PLASTICAL

    SE MANGE ...FOSFOVIT CARBOGÉNIO PROTEÍNAS AMINADAS E CEREAIS GORDOS.....

    BANDEJAS DE PLASTICAL AVEC BEVERAGES CUM FRUCTA UNS RUBIAX?

    MILHARES COZIDOS VIVOS MAS O HERÓI LÊ UM LIVRO ANTIGO

    EN GRAFOPLAS INDESTRUCTIBLE 

    IS A PLASTIC WORLD VON 1952 

    dimecres, 28 de maig de 2014

    THE FLOWERED THUNDERMUG - FIVE HUNDRED YEARS AGO IN 1950 PREAPARE HIS BREAKFAST OF CURRIED PLANKTON ...HIS AUTOMOBILE OF WHICH HE HAS A HERD OF HUNDRED OF FIFTY (CARS ) AND FIGHT WITH INDIANS AND GANGS THAT USED TO TAKE IS CARS IN 1950'S THAT IS HISTORY IN THE 2450 AD- THE DARK SIDE OF EARTH - THEY DON'T MAKE LIFE LIKE THEY USED TO - ALFRED BESTER THE BEST IN THE YEAR OF THE BESTA ...A BESTIARIUM OF POSSIBLE FUTURES

    The girl driving the jeep was very fair and very Nordic. 
    Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but it was so long that it was more a mare's tail. 
    She
    wore sandals, a pair of soiled bluejeans, and nothing else. She was nicely
    tanned. As she turned the jeep off Fifth Avenue and drove bouncing up the
    steps of the library, her bosom danced enchantingly.
    She parked in front of the library entrance, stepped out, and was about to
    enter when her attention was attracted by something across the street. She
    peered, hesitated, then glanced down at her jeans and made a face. She pulled
    off thepants and hurled them at the pigeons eternally cooing and courting on
    the library steps. As they clattered up in fright, she ran down to Fifth Avenue,
    crossed, and stopped before a shop window. There was a plum-colored wool
    dress on display. It had a high waist, a full skirt, and not too many moth holes.
    The price was $79.90.
    The girl rummaged through old cars skewed on the avenue until she found a
    loose fender. She smashed the plate-glass shop door, carefully stepped across
    the splinters, entered, and sorted through the dusty dress racks. She was a big
    girl and had trouble fitting herself. Finally she abandoned the plum-colored
    wool and compromised on a dark tartan, size 12, $120 reduced to $99.90. She
    located a salesbook and pencil, blew the dust off, and carefully wrote: I.O.U.
    $99.90. Linda Nielsen.
    She returned to the library and went through the main doors, which had taken her a week to batter in with a sledgehammer. 

    She ran across the great hall, filthied with five years of droppings from the pigeons roosting there. As
    she ran, she clapped her arms over her head to shield her hair from stray
    shots. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and entered the Print Room. As
    always, she signed the register: Date—June 20, 1981. Name—Linda Nielson.
    Address—Central Park Model Boat Pond. Business or Firm—Last Man on
    Earth.


    She had had a long debate with herself about Business or Firm the last time
    she broke into the library. Strictly speaking, she was the last woman on earth,
    but she had felt that if she wrote that it would seem chauvinistic; and "Last
    Person on Earth" sounded silly, like calling a drink a beverage.
    She pulled portfolios out of racks and leafed through them.
    She knew exactly
    what she wanted; something warm with blue accents to fit a twenty-by-thirty
    frame for her bedroom.
    In a priceless collection of Hiroshige prints she found a lovely landscape.
     She filled out a slip, placed it carefully on the librarian's
    desk, and left with the print.
    Downstairs, she stopped off in the main circulation room, went to the back
    shelves, and selected two Italian grammars and an Italian dictionary. Then
    she backtracked through the main hall, went out to the jeep, and placed the
    books and print on the front seat alongside her companion, an exquisite
    Dresden china doll. She picked up a list that read:
    Jap. print
    Italian
    20 x 30 pict. fr.
    Lobster bisque
    Brass polish
    Detergent
    Furn. polish
    Wet mop
    She crossed off the first two items, replaced the list on the dashboard, got into
    the jeep, and bounced down the library steps. She drove up Fifth Avenue,
    threading her way through crumbling wreckage. As she was passing the ruins
    of St. Patrick's Cathedral at 50th Street, a man appeared from nowhere.
    He stepped out of the rubble and, without looking left or right, started
    crossing the avenue just in front of her. She exclaimed, banged on the horn,
    which remained mute, and braked so sharply that the jeep slewed and
    slammed into the remains of a No. 3 bus. The man let out a squawk, jumped
    ten feet, and then stood frozen, staring at her.
    "You crazy jaywalker," she yelled. "Why don't you look where you're going?
    D'you think you own the whole city?"
    He stared and stammered. He was a big man, with thick, grizzled hair, a red
    beard, and weathered skin. He was wearing army fatigues, heavy ski boots,
    and had a bursting knapsack and blanket roll on his back. He carried a
    battered shotgun, and his pockets were crammed with odds and ends. He
    looked like a prospector.
    "My God," he whispered in a rusty voice. "Somebody at last. I knew it. I
    always knew I'd find someone." Then, as he noticed her long, fair hair, his
    face fell. "But a woman," he muttered. "Just my goddamn lousy luck."
    "What are you, some kind of nut?" she demanded. "Don't you know better
    than to cross against the lights?"

    He looked around in bewilderment. "What lights?"
    "So all right, there aren't any lights, but couldn't you look where you were
    going?"
    "I'm sorry, lady. To tell the truth, I wasn't expecting any traffic."
    "Just plain common sense," she grumbled, backing the jeep off the bus.
    "Hey, lady, wait a minute."
    "Yes?"
    "Listen, you know anything about TV? Electronics, how they say …"
    "Are you trying to be funny?"
    "No, this is straight. Honest."
    She snorted and tried to continue driving up Fifth Avenue, but he wouldn't get
    out of the way.
    "Please, lady," he persisted. "I got a reason for asking. Do you know?"
    "No."
    "Damn! I never get a break. Lady, excuse me, no offense, got any guys in this
    town?"
    "There's nobody but me. I'm the last man on earth."
    "That's funny. I always thought I was."
    "So all right, I'm the last woman on earth."
    He shook his head. "There's got to be other people; there just has to. Stands to
    reason. South, maybe you think? I'm down from New Haven, and I figured if I
    headed where the climate was like warmer, there'd be some guys I could ask
    something."
    "Ask what?"
    "Aw, a woman wouldn't understand. No offense."
    "Well, if you want to head south you're going the wrong way."
    "That's south, ain't it?" he said, pointing down Fifth Avenue.
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    "Yes, but you'll just come to a dead end. Manhattan's an island. What you
    have to do is go uptown and cross the George Washington Bridge to Jersey."
    "Uptown? Which way is that?"
    "Go straight up Fifth to Cathedral Parkway, then over to the West Side and up
    Riverside. You can't miss it."
    He looked at her helplessly.
    "Stranger in town?"
    He nodded.
    "Oh, all right," she said. "Hop in. I'll give you a lift."
    She transferred the books and the china doll to the back seat, and he squeezed
    in alongside her. As she started the jeep she looked down at his worn ski
    boots.
    "Hiking?"
    "Yeah."
    "Why don't you drive? You can get a car working, and there's plenty of gas
    and oil."
    "I don't know how to drive," he said despondently. "It's the story of my life."
    He heaved a sigh, and that made his knapsack jolt massively against her
    shoulder. She examined him out of the corner of her eye. He had a powerful
    chest, a long, thick back, and strong legs. His hands were big and hard, and
    his neck was corded with muscles. She thought for a moment, then nodded to
    herself and stopped the jeep.
    "What's the matter?" he asked. "Won't it go?"

    "What's your name?"
    "Mayo. Jim Mayo."
    "I'm Linda Nielsen."
    "Yeah. Nice meeting you. Why don't it go?"
    "Jim, I've got a proposition for you."
    "Oh?" He looked at her doubtfully. "I'll be glad to listen, lady—I mean Linda,
    but I ought to tell you, I got something on my mind that's going to keep me
    pretty busy for a long t …" His voice trailed off as he turned away from her
    intense gaze.
    "Jim, if you'll do something for me, I'll do something for you."
    "Like what, for instance?"
    "Well, I get terribly lonesome, nights. It isn't so bad during the day—there's
    always a lot of chores to keep you busy—but at night it's just awful."
    "Yeah, I know," he muttered.
    "I've got to do something about it."
    "But how do I come into this?" he asked nervously.
    "Why don't you stay in New York for a while? If you do, I'll teach you how to
    drive and find you a car so you don't have to hike south."
    "Say, that's an idea. Is it hard, driving?"
    "I could teach you in a couple of days."
    "I don't learn things so quick."
    "All right, a couple of weeks, but think of how much time you'll save in the
    long run."
    "Gee," he said, "that sounds great." Then he turned away again. "But what do
    I have to do for you?"
    Her face lit up with excitement. "Jim, I want you to help me move a piano."
    "A piano? What piano?"
    "A rosewood grand from Steinway's on Fifty-seventh Street. I'm dying to have
    it in my place. The living room is just crying for it."
    "Oh, you mean you're furnishing, huh?"
    "Yes, but I want to play after dinner, too. You can't listen to records all the
    time. I've got it all planned; books on how to play, and books on how to tune a
    piano … I've been able to figure everything except how to move the piano in."
    "Yeah, but … but there's apartments all over this town with pianos in them,"
    he objected. "There must be hundreds, at least. Stands to reason. Why don't
    you live in one of them?"
    "Never! I love my place. I've spent five years decorating it, and it's beautiful.
    Besides, there's the problem of water."
    He nodded. "Water's always a headache. How do you handle it?"
    "I'm living in the house in Central Park where they used to keep the model
    yachts. It faces the boat pond. It's a darling place, and I've got it all fixed up.
    We could get the piano in together, Jim. It wouldn't be hard."
    "Well, I don't know, Lena …"
    "Linda."
    "Excuse me, Linda. I—"
    "You look strong enough. What'd you do, before?"
    "I used to be a pro rassler."
    "There! I knew you were strong."
    "Oh, I'm not a rassler anymore. I became a bartender and went into the
    restaurant business. I opened The Body Slam up in New Haven.
    Maybe you heard of it?"
    "I'm sorry."
    "It was sort of famous with the sports crowd. What'd you do before?"
    "I was a researcher for BBDO."
    "What's that?"
    "An advertising agency," she explained impatiently. "We can talk about that
    later, if you'll stick around. And I'll teach you how to drive, and we can move
    in the piano, and there're a few other things that I—but that can wait.
    Afterward you can drive south."
    "Gee, Linda, I don't know …"
    She took Mayo's hands. "Come on, Jim, be a sport. You can stay with me. I'm
    a wonderful cook, and I've got a lovely guest room …"

    "What for? I mean, thinking you was the last man on earth."
    "That's a silly question. A proper house has to have a guest room. You'll love
    my place. I turned the lawns into a farm and gardens, and you can swim in the
    pond, and we'll get you a new Jag … I know where there's a beauty up on
    blocks."
    "I think I'd rather have a Caddy."
    "You can have anything you like. So what do you say, Jim? Is it a deal?"
    "All right, Linda," he muttered reluctantly. "You've a deal."
    It was indeed a lovely house with its pagoda roof of copper weathered to
    verdigris green, fieldstone walls, and deep recessed windows. The oval pond
    before it glittered blue in the soft June sunlight, and mallard ducks paddled
    and quacked busily. The sloping lawns that formed a bowl around the pond
    were terraced and cultivated. The house faced west, and Central Park
    stretched out beyond like an unkempt estate.
    Mayo looked at the pond wistfully. "It ought to have boats."
    "The house was full of them when I moved in," Linda said.
    "I always wanted a model boat when I was a kid. Once I even—" Mayo  broke
    off. A penetrating pounding sounded somewhere; an irregular sequence of
    heavy knocks that sounded like the dint of stones under water. It stopped as
    suddenly as it had begun. "What was that?" Mayo asked.
    Linda shrugged. "I don't know for sure. I think it's the city falling apart. You'll
    see buildings coming down every now and then. You get used to it." Her
    enthusiasm rekindled. "Now come inside. I want to show you everything."
    She was bursting with pride and overflowing with decorating details that
    bewildered Mayo, but he was impressed by her Victorian living room. Empire
    bedroom, and country kitchen with a working kerosene cooking stove. The
    colonial guest room, with four-poster bed, hooked rug, and tole lamps,
    worried him.
    "This is kind of girlie-girlie, huh?"
    "Naturally, I'm a girl."
    "Yeah. Sure. I mean …" Mayo looked around doubtfully. "Well, a guy is used
    to stuff that ain't so delicate. No offense."

    "Don't worry, that bed's strong enough. Now remember, Jim, no feet on the
    spread, and remove it at night. If your shoes are dirty, take them off before
    you come in. I got that rug from the museum, and I don't want it messed up.
    Have you got a change of clothes?"
    "Only what I got on."
    "We'll have to get you new things tomorrow. What you're wearing is so filthy
    it's not worth laundering."
    "Listen," he said desperately, "I think maybe I better camp out in the park."
    "Why on earth?"
    "Well, I'm like more used to it than houses. But you don't have to worry,
    Linda. I'll be around in case you need me."
    "Why should I need you?"
    "All you have to do is holler."
    "Nonsense," Linda said firmly. "You're my guest and you're staying here. Now
    get cleaned up; I'm going to start dinner. Oh damn! I forgot to pick up the
    lobster bisque."
    She gave him a dinner cleverly contrived from canned goods and served on
    exquisite Fornasetti china with Danish silver flatware.

    It was a typical girl's
    meal, and Mayo was still hungry when it was finished, but too polite to
    mention it. He was too tired to fabricate an excuse to go out and forage for
    something substantial. He lurched off to bed, remembering to remove his
    shoes but forgetting all about the spread.
    He was awakened next morning by a loud honking and clattering of wings. He
    rolled out of bed and went to the windows just in time to see the mallards
    dispossessed from the pond by what appeared to be a red balloon. When he
    got his eyes working properly, he saw that it was a bathing cap. He wandered
    out to the pond, stretching and groaning. Linda yelled cheerfully and swam
    toward him. She heaved herself up out of the pond onto the curbing. The
    bathing cap was all that she wore. Mayo backed away from the splash and
    spatter.
    "Good morning," Linda said. "Sleep well?"
    "Good morning," Mayo said. "I don't know. The bed put kinks in my back.
    Gee, that water must be cold. You're all gooseflesh."

    "No, it's marvelous." She pulled off the cap and shook her hair down.
    "Where's that towel? Oh, here. Go on in, Jim. You'll feel wonderful."
    "I don't like it when it's cold."
    "Don't be a sissy."
    A crack of thunder split the quiet morning. Mayo looked up at the clear sky in
    astonishment. "What the hell was that?" he exclaimed.
    "Watch," Linda ordered.
    "It sounded like a sonic boom."
    "There!" she cried, pointing west. "See?"
    One of the West Side skyscrapers crumbled majestically, sinking into itself
    like a collapsible cup and raining masses of cornice and brick. The flayed
    girders twisted and contorted. Moments later they could hear the roar of the
    collapse.
    "Man, that's a sight," Mayo muttered in awe.
    "The decline and fall of the Empire City. You get used to it. Now take a dip,
    Jim. I'll get you a towel."
    She ran into the house. He dropped his shorts and took off his socks but was
    still standing on the curb, unhappily dipping his toe into the water when she
    returned with a huge bath towel.
    "It's awful cold, Linda," he complained.
    "Didn't you take cold showers when you were a wrestler?"
    "Not me. Boiling hot."
    "Jim, if you just stand there, you'll never go in. Look at you, you're starting to
    shiver. Is that a tattoo around your waist?"
    "What? Oh, yea. It's a python, in five colors. It goes all the way around. See?"
    He revolved proudly. "Got it when I was with the Army in Saigon back in '64.
    It's a Oriental-type python. Elegant, huh?"
    "Did it hurt?"
    "To tell the truth, no. Some guys try to make out like it's Chinese torture to get
    tattooed, but they're just showin' off. It itches more than anything else."

    "You were a soldier in '64?"
    "That's right."
    "How old were you?"
    "Twenty."
    "You're thirty-seven now?"
    "Thirty-six going on thirty-seven."
    "Then you're prematurely gray?"
    "I guess so."
    She contemplated him thoughtfully. "I tell you what, if you do go in, don't get
    your head wet."
    She ran back into the house. Mayo, ashamed of his vacillation, forced himself
    to jump feet first into the pond. He was standing, chest deep, splashing his
    face and shoulders with water when Linda returned. She carried a stool, a
    pair of scissors, and a comb.
    "Doesn't it feel wonderful?" she called
    "No."
    She laughed. "Well, come out. I'm going to give you a haircut."
    He climbed out of the pond, dried himself, and obediently sat on the stool
    while she cut his hair. "The beard, too," Linda insisted. "I want to see what
    you really look like." She trimmed him close enough for shaving, inspected
    him, and nodded with satisfaction. "Very handsome."
    "Aw, go on," he blushed.
    "There's a bucket of hot water on the stove. Go and shave. Don't bother to
    dress. We're going to get you new clothes after breakfast, and then … the
    piano."
    "I couldn't walk around the streets naked," he said, shocked.
    "Don't be silly. Who's to see? Now hurry."

    They drove down to Abercrombie & Fitch on Madison and 45th Street, Mayo
    wrapped modestly in his towel. Linda told him she'd been a customer for
    years and showed him the pile of sales slips she had accumulated. Mayo
    examined them curiously while she took his measurements and went off in
    search of clothes. He was almost indignant when she returned with her arms
    laden.
    "Jim, I've got some lovely elk moccasins, and a safari suit, and wool socks,
    and shipboard shirts, and—"
    "Listen," he interrupted, "do you know what your whole tab comes to? Nearly
    fourteen hundred dollars."
    "Really? Put on the shorts first. They're drip-dry."
    "You must have been out of your mind, Linda. What'd you want all that junk
    for?"
    "Are the socks big enough? What junk? I needed everything."
    "Yeah? Like …" He shuffled the signed sales slips. "Like one Underwater
    Viewer with Plexiglas Lens, nine ninety-five? What for?"
    "So I could see to clean the bottom of the pond."
    "What about this Stainless Steel Service for Four, thirty-nine fifty?"

    "For when I'm lazy and don't feel like heating water. You can wash stainless
    steel in cold water." She admired him. "Oh, Jim, come look in the mirror.
    You're real romantic, like the big-game hunter in that Hemingway story."
    He shook his head. "I don't see how you're ever going to get out of hock. You
    got to watch your spending, Linda. Maybe we better forget about that piano,
    huh?"
    "Never," Linda said adamantly. "I don't care how much it costs. A piano is a
    lifetime investment, and it's worth it."
    She was frantic with excitement as they drove uptown to the Steinway
    showroom, and helpful and underfoot by turns. After a long afternoon of
    muscle-cracking and critical engineering involving makeshift gantries and an
    agonizing dolly-haul up Fifth Avenue, they had the piano in place in Linda's
    living room. Mayo gave it one last shake to make sure it was firmly on its legs
    and then sank down, exhausted. "Je-zuz!" he groaned. "Hiking south
    would've been easier."
     "Listen. He's making a funny sound; like steel."
    "Steel?"
    "Yeah. Like … like swords in a duel."
    "You're kidding."
    "No. Honest."
    "But birds sing; they don't make noises."
    "Not always. Bluejays imitate noises a lot. Starlings, too. 

    And parrots. Now
    why would he be imitating a sword fight? 

    Where'd he hear it?"
     "You're a real country boy, aren't you, Jim? Bees and bluejays and starlings
    and all that …"
    "I guess so. I was going to ask; why would you say a thing like that, me not
    having any childhood?"
    "Oh, things like not knowing Alice, and never going on a picnic, and always
    wanting a model yacht." Linda opened a dark bottle. "Like to try some wine?"
    "You better go easy," he warned.
    "Now stop it, Jim. I'm not a drunk."
    "Did you or didn't you get smashed last night?"
    She capitulated. "All right, I did; but only because it was my first drink in
    years."
    He was pleased by her surrender. "Sure. Sure. That figures."
    "So? Join me?"
    "What the hell, why not?" He grinned. "Let's live a little. Say, this is one
    swingin' picnic, and I like the plates, too. Where'd you get them?"
    "Abercrombie & Fitch," Linda said, deadpan. "Stainless Steel Service for
    Four, thirty-nine fifty. Skoal."



     "Oh, yes. Jim, did you play Drop the Handkerchief up in New Haven?" Linda
    sang. "A tisket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket. I sent a letter to my love,
    and on the way I dropped it …"
    "Gee," he said, much impressed. "You sing real good."
    "Oh, go on!"
    "Yes, you do. You got a swell voice. Now don't argue with me. Keep quiet a
    minute. I got to figure something out." He thought intently for a long time,
    finishing his wine and absently accepting another glass. Finally he delivered
    himself of a decision. "You got to learn music."
    "You know I'm dying to, Jim."
    "So I'm going to stay awhile and teach you; as much as I know. Now hold it!
    Hold it!" he added hastily, cutting off her excitement. "I'm not going to stay in
    your house. I want a place of my own."
    "Of course, Jim. Anything you say."
    "And I'm still headed south."
    "I'll teach you to drive, Jim. I'll keep my word."
    "And no strings, Linda."
    "Of course not. What kind of strings?"
     "You know. Like the last minute you all of a sudden got a Looey Cans couch
    you want me to move in."
    "Louis Quinze!" Linda's jaw dropped. "Wherever did you learn that?"
    "Not in the army, that's for sure."
    They laughed, clinked glasses, and finished their wine. Suddenly Mayo leaped
    up, pulled Linda's hair, and ran to the Wonderland Monument. In an instant
    he had climbed to the top of Alice's head.
    "I'm King of the Mountain," he shouted, looking around in imperial survey.
    "I'm King of the—" He cut himself off and stared down behind the statue.
    "Jim, what's the matter?"
    Without a word, Mayo climbed down and strode to a pile of debris halfhidden
    inside overgrown forsythia bushes. He knelt and began turning over
    the wreckage with gentle hands. Linda ran to him.
    "Jim, what's wrong?"
     "These used to be model boats," he muttered.
    "That's right. My God, is that all? I thought you were sick or something."
    "How come they're here?"
    "Why, I dumped them, of course."
    "You?"
    "Yes. I told you. I had to clear out the boathouse when I moved in. That was
    ages ago."
    "You did this?"
    "Yes. I—"
    "You're a murderer," he growled. He stood up and glared at her. "You're a
    killer. You're like all women, you got no heart and soul. To do a thing like
    this!"
    He turned and stalked toward the boat pond. Linda followed him, completely
    bewildered.
    "Jim, I don't understand. Why are you so mad?"
     You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
    "But I had to have house room. You wouldn't expect me to live with a lot of
    model boats."
    "Just forget everything I said. I'm going to pack and go south. I wouldn't stay
    with you if you was the last person on earth."
    Linda gathered herself and suddenly darted ahead of Mayo. When he
    tramped into the boathouse, she was standing before the door of the guest
    room. She held up a heavy iron key.
    "I found it," she panted. "Your door's locked."
    "Gimme that key, Linda."
    "No."
    He stepped toward her, but she faced him defiantly and stood her ground.
    "Go ahead," she challenged. "Hit me."
     He stopped. "Aw, I wouldn't pick on anybody that wasn't my own size."
    They continued to face each other, at a complete impasse.
    "I don't need my gear," Mayo muttered at last. "I can get more stuff
    somewheres."
    "Oh, go ahead and pack," Linda answered. She tossed him the key and stood
    aside. Then Mayo discovered there was no lock in the bedroom door. He
    opened the door, looked inside, closed it, and looked at Linda. She kept her
    face straight but began to sputter. He grinned. Then they both burst out
    laughing.
    "Gee," Mayo said, "you sure made a monkey out of me. I'd hate to play poker
    against you."
    "You're a pretty good bluffer yourself, Jim. I was scared to death you were
    going to knock me down."
    "You ought to know I wouldn't hurt nobody."
    "I guess I do. Now, let's sit down and talk this over sensibly."
    "Aw, forget it, Linda. I kind of lost my head over them boats, and I—"
     "I don't mean the boats; I mean going south. Every time you get mad you start
    south again. Why?"
    "I told you, to find guys who know about TV."
    "Why?"
    "You wouldn't understand."
    "I can try. Why don't you explain what you're after—specifically? Maybe I can
    help you."
    "You can't do nothing for me; you're a girl."
    "We have our uses. At least I can listen. You can trust me, Jim. Aren't we
    chums? Tell me about it."
     Well, when the blast come (Mayo said) I was up in the Berkshires with Gil
    Watkins. Gil was my buddy, a real nice guy and a real bright guy. He took two
    years from M.I.T. before he quit college. He was like chief engineer or
    something at WNHA, the TV station in New Haven. Gil had a million hobbies.
    One of them was spee—speel—I can't remember. It meant exploring caves.
    So anyway, we were up in this flume in the Berkshires, spending the weekend
    inside, exploring and trying to map everything and figure out where the
    underground river comes from. We brought food and stuff along, and
    bedrolls. The compass we were using went crazy for like twenty minutes, and
    that should have give us a clue, but Gil talked about magnetic ores and stuff.
    Only when we come out Sunday night, I tell you it was pretty scary. Gil knew
    right off what happened.
    "By Christ, Jim," he said, "they up and done it like everybody always knew
    they would. They've blew and gassed and poisoned and radiated themselves
    straight to hell, and we're going back to that goddamn cave until it all blows
    over."
    So me and Gil went back and rationed the food and stayed as long as we could.
    Finally we come out again and drove back to New Haven. It was dead like all
    the rest. Gil put together some radio stuff and tried to pick up broadcasts.
    Nothing. Then we packed some canned goods and drove all around:
    Bridgeport, Waterbury, Hartford, Springfield, Providence, New London … a
     big circle. Nobody. Nothing. So we come back to New Haven and settled down,
    and it was a pretty good life.
    Daytime, we'd get in supplies and stuff and tinker with the house to keep it
    working right. Nights, after supper, Gil would go off to WNHA around seven
    o'clock and start the station. He was running it on the emergency generators.
    I'd go down to the Body Slam, open it up, sweep it out, and then start the bar
    TV set. Gil fixed me a generator for it to run on.
    It was a lot of fun watching the shows Gil was broadcasting. He'd start with
    the news and weather, which he always got wrong. All he had was some
    Farmer's Almanacs and a sort of antique barometer that looked like that
    clock you got there on the wall. I don't think it worked so good, or maybe Gil
    never took weather at M.I.T. Then he'd broadcast the evening show.
    I had my shotgun in the bar in case of holdups. Anytime I saw something that
    bugged me, I just up with the gun and let loose at the set. Then I'd take it and
    throw it out the front door and put another one in its place. I must have had
    hundreds waiting in the back. I spent two days a week just collecting reserves.
     Midnight, Gil would turn off WNHA, I'd lock up the restaurant, and we'd meet
    home for coffee. Gil would ask how many sets I shot and laugh when I told
    him. He said I was the most accurate TV poll ever invented. I'd ask him about
    what shows were coming up next week and argue with him about … oh …
    about like what movies or football games WNHA was scheduling. I didn't like
    Westerns much, and I hated them high-minded panel discussions.
    But the luck had to turn lousy; it's the story of my life. After a couple of years,
    I found out I was down to my last set, and then I was in trouble. This night Gil
    run one of them icky commercials where this smart-aleck woman saves a
    marriage with the right laundry soap. Naturally I reached for my gun, and
    only at the last minute remembered not to shoot. Then he run an awful movie
    about a misunderstood composer, and the same thing happened. When we
    met back at the house, I was all shook up.
    "What's the matter?" Gil asked.
    I told him.
    "I thought you liked watching the shows," he said.
    "Only when I could shoot 'em."
    "You poor bastard," he laughed, "you're a captive audience now."
    "Gil, could you maybe change the programs, seeing the spot I'm in?"
     "Be reasonable, Jim. WNHA has to broadcast variety. We operate on the
    cafeteria basis; something for everybody. If you don't like a show, why don't
    you switch channels?"
    "Now that's silly. You know damn well we only got one channel in New
    Haven."
    "Then turn your set off."
    "I can't turn the bar set off; it's part of the entertainment. I'd lose my whole
    clientele. Gil, do you have to show them awful movies, like that army musical
    last night, singing and dancing and kissing on top of Sherman tanks, for
    Jezus' sake!"
    "The women love uniform pictures."
    "And those commercials; women always sneering at somebody's girdle, and
    fairies smoking cigarettes, and—"
     "Aw," Gil said, "write a letter to the station."
    So I did, and a week later I got an answer. It said: Dear Mr. Mayo: We are very
    glad to learn that you are a regular viewer of WNHA, and thank you for your
    interest in our programming. We hope you will continue to enjoy our
    broadcasts. Sincerely yours, Gilbert O. Watkins, Station Manager. A couple of
    tickets for an interview show were enclosed. I showed the letter to Gil, and he
    just shrugged.
    "You see what you're up against, Jim," he said. "They don't care about what
    you like or don't like. All they want to know is if you are watching."
    I tell you, the next couple of months were hell for me. I couldn't keep the set
    turned off, and I couldn't watch it without reaching for my gun a dozen times
    a night. It took all my willpower to keep from pulling the trigger. I got so
    nervous and jumpy that I knew I had to do something about it before I went
    off my rocker. So one night I brought the gun home and shot Gil.
    Next day I felt a lot better, and when I went down to the Body Slam at seven
    o'clock to clean up, I was whistling kind of cheerful. I swept out the
    restaurant, polished the bar, and then turned on the TV to get the news and
    weather. You wouldn't believe it, but the set was busted. I couldn't get a
    picture. I couldn't even get a sound. My last set, busted.
    So you see, that's why I have to head south (Mayo explained)—I got to locate a
    TV repairman.
     There was a long pause after Mayo finished his story. Linda examined him
    keenly, trying to conceal the gleam in her eye. At last she asked with studied
    carelessness, "Where did he get the barometer?"
    "Who? What?"
    "Your friend, Gil. His antique barometer. Where did he get it?"
    "Gee, I don't know. Antiquing was another one of his hobbies."
    "And it looked like that clock?"
    "Just like it."
    "French?"
    "I couldn't say."
    "Bronze?"
     "I guess so. Like your clock. Is that bronze?"
    "Yes. Shaped like a sunburst?"
    "No, just like yours."
    "That's a sunburst. The same size?"
    "Exactly."
    "Where was it?"
    "Didn't I tell you? In our house."
    "Where's the house?"
    "On Grant Street."
    "What number?"
    "Three fifteen. Say, what is all this?"
    "Nothing, Jim. Just curious. No offense. Now I think I'd better get our picnic
    things."
    "You wouldn't mind if I took a walk by myself?"
     She cocked an eye at him. "Don't try driving alone. Garage mechanics are
    scarcer than TV repairmen."
    He grinned and disappeared; but after dinner the true purpose of his
    disappearance was revealed when he produced a sheaf of sheet music, placed
    it on the piano rack, and led Linda to the piano bench. She was delighted and
    touched.
    "Jim, you angel! Wherever did you find it?"
    "In the apartment house across the street. Fourth floor, rear. Name of
    Horowitz. They got a lot of records, too. Boy, I can tell you it was pretty
    spooky snooping around in the dark with only matches. You know something
    funny? The whole top of the house is full of glop."
    "Glop?"
    "Yeah. Sort of white jelly, only it's hard. Like clear concrete. Now look, see
    this note? It's C. Middle C. It stands for this white key here. We better sit
    together. Move over …"
     The lesson continued for two hours of painful concentration and left them
    both so exhausted that they tottered to their rooms with only perfunctory
    good nights.
    "Jim," Linda called.
    "Yeah?" he yawned.
    "Would you like one of my dolls for your bed?"
    "Gee, no. Thanks a lot, Linda, but guys really ain't interested in dolls."
    "I suppose not. Never mind. Tomorrow I'll have something for you that really
    interests guys."
    Mayo was awakened next morning by a rap on his door. He heaved up in bed
    and tried to open his eyes.
    "Yeah? Who is it?" he called.
    "It's me. Linda. May I come in?"
    He glanced around hastily. The room was neat. The hooked rug was clean.
    The precious candlewick bedspread was neatly folded on top of the dresser.
    "Okay. Come on in."
    Linda entered, wearing a crisp seersucker dress. She sat down on the edge of
    the four-poster and gave Mayo a friendly pat. "Good morning," she said. "Now
    listen. I'll have to leave you alone for a few hours. I've got things to do. There's
    breakfast on the table, but I'll be back in time for lunch. All right?"
    "Sure."
    "You won't be lonesome?"
    "Where you going?"
    "Tell you when I get back." She reached out and tousled his head. "Be a good
    boy and don't get into mischief.
    Oh, one other thing. Don't go into my bedroom."
    "Why should I?"
    "Just don't anyway."
    She smiled and was gone. Moments later, Mayo heard the jeep start and drive
    off. He got up at once, went into Linda's bedroom, and looked around. The
    room was neat, as ever. The bed was made, and her pet dolls were lovingly
    arranged on the coverlet. Then he saw it.
    "Gee," he breathed.
    It was a model of a full-rigged clipper ship. The spars and rigging were intact,
    but the hull was peeling, and the sails were shredded. It stood before Linda's
    closet, and alongside it was her sewing basket. She had already cut out a fresh
    set of white linen sails. Mayo knelt down before the model and touched it
    tenderly.
    "I'll paint her black with a gold line around her," he murmured, "and I'll
    name her the Linda N."
    He was so deeply moved that he hardly touched his breakfast. He bathed,
    dressed, took his shotgun and a handful of shells, and went out to wander
    through the park. He circled south, passed the playing fields, the decaying
    carousel, and the crumbling skating rink, and at last left the park and loafed
    down Seventh Avenue.

     He turned east on 50th Street and spent a long time trying to decipher the
    tattered posters advertising the last performance at Radio City Music Hall.
    Then he turned south again. He was jolted to a halt by the sudden clash of
    steel. It sounded like giant sword blades in a titanic duel. A small herd of
    stunted horses burst out of a side street, terrified by the clangor. Their
    shoeless hooves thudded bluntly on the pavement. The sound of steel
    stopped.
    "That's where that bluejay got it from," Mayo muttered. "But what the hell is
    it?"
    He drifted eastward to investigate, but forgot the mystery when he came to
    the diamond center. He was dazzled by the blue-white stones glittering in the
    showcases. The door of one jewel mart had sagged open, and Mayo tipped in.
    When he emerged, it was with a strand of genuine matched pearls which had
    cost him an I.O.U. worth a year's rent on the Body Slam.
    His tour took him to Madison Avenue, where he found himself before
    Abercrombie & Fitch. He went in to explore and came at last to the gun racks.
     There he lost all sense of time, and when he recovered his senses, he was
    walking up Fifth Avenue toward the boat pond. An Italian Cosmi automatic
    rifle was cradled in his arms, guilt was in his heart, and a sales slip in the
    store read: I.O.U. 1 Cosmi Rifle, $750.00. 6 Boxes Ammo. $18.00. James
    Mayo.
    It was past three o'clock when he got back to the boathouse. He eased in,
    trying to appear casual, hoping the extra gun he was carrying would go
    unnoticed. Linda was sitting on the piano bench with her back to him.
    "Hi," Mayo said nervously. "Sorry I'm late. I … I brought you a present.
    They're real." He pulled the pearls from his pocket and held them out. Then
    he saw she was crying.
    "Hey, what's the matter?"
    She didn't answer.
    "You wasn't scared I'd run out on you? I mean, well, all my gear is here. The
    car, too. You only had to look."
    She turned. "I hate you!" she cried.
    He dropped the pearls and recoiled, startled by her vehemence. "What's the
    matter?'
    "You're a lousy, rotten liar!"
     "Who? Me?"
    "I drove up to New Haven this morning." Her voice trembled with passion.
    "There's no house standing on Grant Street. It's all wiped out. There's no
    Station WNHA. The whole building's gone."
    "No."
    "Yes. And I went to your restaurant. There's no pile of TV sets out in the
    street. There's only one set, over the bar. It's rusted to pieces. The rest of the
    restaurant is a pigsty. You were living there all the time. Alone. There was
    only one bed in back. It was lies! All lies!"
    "Why would I lie about a thing like that?"
    "You never shot any Gil Watkins."
    "I sure did. Both barrels. He had it coming."
     "And you haven't got any TV set to repair."
    "Yes, I do.
    "And even if it is repaired, there's no station to broadcast."
    "Talk sense," he said angrily. "Why would I shoot Gil if there wasn't any
    broadcast?"
    "If he's dead, how can he broadcast?"
    "See? And you just now said I didn't shoot him."
    "Oh, you're mad! You're insane!" she sobbed. "You just described that
    barometer because you happened to be looking at my clock. And I believed
    your crazy lies. I had my heart set on a barometer to match my clock. I've
    been looking for years." She ran to the wall arrangement and hammered her
    fist alongside the clock. "It belongs right here. Here. But you lied, you lunatic.
    There never was a barometer."
    "If there's a lunatic around here, it's you," he shouted. "You're so crazy to get
    this house decorated that nothing's real for you anymore."
    She ran across the room, snatched up his old shotgun, and pointed it at him.
    "You get out of here. Right this minute. Get out or I'll kill you. I never want to
    see you again."
    The shotgun kicked off in her hands, knocking her backward and spraying
    shot over Mayo's head into a corner bracket. China shattered and clattered
    down. Linda's face went white.
    "Jim! My God, are you all right? I didn't mean to … it just went off …"
    He stepped forward, too furious to speak. Then, as he raised his hand to cuff
    her, the sound of distant reports come, BLAM-BLAM-BLAM. Mayo froze.
    "Did you hear that?" he whispered.
    Linda nodded.
    "That wasn't any accident. It was a signal."
    Mayo grabbed the shotgun, ran outside, and fired the second barrel into the
    air. There was a pause. Then again came the distant explosions in a stately
    triplet, BLAM-BLAM-BLAM. They had an odd, sucking sound, as though they
    were implosions rather than explosions. Far up the park, a canopy of
    frightened birds mounted into the sky.
    "There's somebody," Mayo exulted. "By God, I told you I'd find somebody.
    Come on."
    They ran north, Mayo digging into his pockets for more shells to reload and
    signal again.
    "I got to thank you for taking that shot at me, Linda."
    "I didn't shoot at you," she protested. "It was an accident."
    "The luckiest accident in the world. They could be passing through and never
    know about us. But what the hell kind of guns are they using? I never heard
    no shots like that before, and I heard 'em all. Wait a minute."
    On the little piazza before the Wonderland monument, Mayo halted and
    raised the shotgun to fire. Then he slowly lowered it. He took a deep breath.
    In a harsh voice he said, "Turn around. We're going back to the house." He
    pulled her around and faced her south.
    Linda stared at him. In an instant he had become transformed from a gentle
    teddy bear into a panther.
    "Jim, what's wrong?"
     "I'm scared," he growled. "I'm goddamn scared, and I don't want you to be,
    too." The triple salvo sounded again. "Don't pay any attention," he ordered.
    "We're going back to the house. Come on!"
    She refused to move. "But why? Why?"
    "We don't want any part of them. Take my word for it."
    "How do you know? You've got to tell me."
    "Christ! You won't let it alone until you find out, huh? All right. You want the
    explanation for that bee smell, and them buildings falling down, and all the
    rest?" He turned Linda around with a hand on her neck and directed her gaze
    at the Wonderland monument. "Go ahead. Look."
    A consummate craftsman had removed the heads of Alice, the Mad Hatter,
    and the March Hare, and replaced them with towering mantis heads, all saber
    mandibles, antennae, and faceted eyes. They were of a burnished steel and
    gleamed with unspeakable ferocity. Linda let out a sick whimper and sagged
    against Mayo.
    The triple report signaled once more.
    Mayo caught Linda, heaved her over his shoulder, and loped back toward the
    pond. She recovered consciousness in a moment and began to moan. "Shut
    up," he growled. "Whining won't help." He set her on her feet before the
    boathouse. She was shaking but trying to control herself. "Did this place have
    shutters when you moved in? Where are they?"
    "Stacked." She had to squeeze the words out. "Behind the trellis."
    "I'll put 'em up. You fill buckets with water and stash 'em in the kitchen. Go!"
    "Is it going to be a siege?"
    "We'll talk later. Go!"
    She filled buckets and then helped Mayo jam the last of the shutters into the
    window embrasures. "All right, inside," he ordered. They went into the house
    and shut and barred the door. Faint shafts of the late afternoon sun filtered
    through the louvers of the shutters. Mayo began unpacking the cartridges for
    the Cosmi rifle. "You got any kind of gun?"
    "A .22 revolver somewhere."
    "Ammo?"
    "I think so."
    "Get it ready."
    "Is it going to be a siege?" she repeated.
    "I don't know. I don't know who they are, or what they are, or where they
    come from. All I know is, we got to be prepared for the worst."
    The distant implosions sounded. Mayo looked up alertly, listening. Linda
    could make him out in the dimness now. His face looked carved. His chest
    gleamed with sweat. He exuded the musky odor of caged lions. Linda had an
    overpowering impulse to touch him. Mayo loaded the rifle, stood it alongside
    the shotgun, and began padding from shutter to shutter, peering out
    vigilantly, waiting with massive patience.
    "Will they find us?" Linda asked.
    "Maybe."
    "Could they be friendly?"
    "Maybe."

    "Those heads looked so horrible."
    "Yeah."
    "Jim, I'm scared. I've never been so scared in my life."
    "I don't blame you."
    "How long before we know?"
    "An hour, if they're friendly; two or three, if they're not."
    "W-why longer?"
    "If they're looking for trouble, they'll be more cautious."
    "Jim, what do you really think?"
    "About what?"
    "Our chances."
    "You really want to know?"
    "Please."


    "We're dead."
    She began to sob. He shook her savagely. "Stop that. Go get your gun ready."
    She lurched across the living room, noticed the pearls Mayo had dropped, and
    picked them up. She was so dazed that she put them on automatically. Then
    she went into her darkened bedroom and pulled Mayo's model yacht away
    from the closet door. She located the .22 in a hatbox on the closet floor and
    removed it along with a small carton of cartridges.
    She realized that a dress was unsuited to this emergency. She got a turtleneck
    sweater, jodhpurs, and boots from the closet. Then she stripped naked to
    change. Just as she raised her arms to unclasp the pearls, Mayo entered,
    paced to the shuttered south window, and peered out. When he turned back
    from the window, he saw her.
    He stopped short. She couldn't move. Their eyes locked, and she began to
    tremble, trying to conceal herself with her arms. He stepped forward,
    stumbled on the model yacht, and kicked it out of the way. The next instant he
    had taken possession of her body, and the pearls went flying, too. As she
    pulled him down on the bed, fiercely tearing the shirt from his back, her pet
    dolls also went into the discard heap along with the yacht, the pearls, and the
    rest of the world.





    dimarts, 27 de maig de 2014

    IN EUROZONE WAR BITTER WAR,THERE'S A SNAG - THIS CONTRACT BINDS YOU TO SERVE IN THE LEGION OF THE DAMNED - AND THE WHOLE THING IS WRITTEN ...THAT EVEN A MORON CAN YES THEY CAN UNDERSTAND. BUT FEEL FREE TO ASK ANY QUESTIONS YOU WANT - WHO GOES HERE? BOB SHAW 1977 - UM HOMEM ENTRA NUM CENTRO DE RECRUTAMENTO PARA A EUROZONA E ASSINA UM CONTRATO DE 30 ANOS E ESQUECE TODO O SEU PASSADO DE DESVALORIZAÇÃO COMPETITIVA ESQUECER EM 2014 OU A 10 DE NOVEMBRO DE 2386 É SEMPRE UM BÓNUS

    IS WRITTEN  OR WAS WRITTEN THE MORON DON'T KNOW

    IS OR WAS WRITTEN IN ECONOMIC EURO LANGUAGE

    I ALSO AGREE, IN THE INTERESTS OF EFFICIENCY

    TO STANDARD ELECTROPSYCHO RESPONSE CONDITIONING

    IT LOOKS LIKE A CYST

    -THIS IS A MARK-THREE COMMAND ENFORCER

    THE PAY IS TEN MONITS A DAY ....

    SAP STANDS FOR SELF ADMINISTRED PUNISHMENT

    NOW, I THINK WE WERE DISCUSSING MONEY

    -HOW MUCH YOU GOT?

    LEND IT TO ME....I'LL PAY YOU BACK NEXT TIME I SEE YOU

    - PLEASE DON'T THINK I'M IMPLYING ANYTHING, BUT IS THERE ANY CHANCE

    OF YOU EVER SEEING ME AGAIN

    - VERY LITTLE BUT YOU NEVER KNOW YOUR LUCK

    DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT...

    YOU'RE EXPECTED TO SHOOT THE ENEMY - NOT WRESTLE HIM...

    RESPIRATORS MEN ...TOBACCO SMOKE, YOU'RE A SMOKER? 

    BLUE-WHITE SMOKE THE PLANET IS FULL OF VOLCANOS AND TOBACCO FIELDS

    THEY REFUSE TO IMPORT PRODUCTS FROM EARTH

    TO IMPORT CIGARS ....

    -BUT YOU CAN SEE THEIR POINT OF VIEW

    -WHAT ARE YOU ...A GREENO?

    dilluns, 26 de maig de 2014

    PEOPLE DON'T BUY FUR ANYMORE OR COTTON THAT DROPS BELOW SOME CENTS FOR BALE EVERY DAY -HYPERPILOSITY - 1938 BY SPRAGUE DE CAMP - UM VÍRUS AFECTA A ECONOMIA MUNDIAL NÃO SE COMPRAM ROUPAS ...AS MEIAS DE SEDA DEIXAM DE SER USADAS ...THE NUMBER OF MARRIAGES DECREASED - A RED PLOT...SUSPECTS THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE

    In the Great Change of 1971 a virus infects humanity that causes everyone to grow fur all over their bodies.
    Initial reaction to the plague, dubbed "hyperpilosity" by the news media, is one of panic and horror. Various examples of the troubles resulting are told; the cast of the latest Tarzan movie, for instance, is reduced to frequent all-over shaving to be able to continue filming.
    There is a run on depilatory products.
    An immense financial reward is offered to whoever can identify the condition's cause and develop a cure. Against the playing out of plague-fueled societal crisis and change, protagonist Pat Weiss relates how he and his employer, virology professor Oliveira Salazar and his friend Vasco da Gamma, strive and ultimately succeed in doing just this.
     Alas for their dreams of riches; by the time their work is complete, mankind has become accustomed to the new state of things and moved on; those who end up profiting are not the scientists but purveyors of currycombs and such.

    SLOGAN'S : DON'T BE A HAIRY 

    1972 DESCOBREM QUE TEST-TUBE BABIES ARE HAIRY TOO...

    "an entertaining episode on the sociological impact of the spontaneous growth of a furlike coating of hair on all men and women" though noting that "reader reception was only mild

    THE SANTAROGA BARRIER - A 60'S UTOPIA OF MIND CONTROL BY MUSHROOM'S - UMA DROGA UNIFICADORA DAS MENTES HOMOGENEIZAÇÃO OU NAZIFICAÇÃO DAS GENTES -OS ACTORES AUTO-HIPNOTIZAM-SE NAS SUAS PERSONAGENS MARINE LE PEN CRESCE COMO UM FUNGO CULTIVADO PELOS ACÓLITOS - UMA IDEOLOGIA SOLÚVEL EM TODA A FAST FOOD APODERA-SE DA EUROPA - O TEMPO DAS MENTES E DOS DEMENTES COLECTIVOS CHEGOU E CHEGOU DEPRESSA

    Santaroga seemed to be nothing more than a prosperous farm community. 
    But there was something . . . different . . . about Santaroga.

    Santaroga had no juvenile delinquency, or any crime at all. 

    Outsiders found no house for sale or rent in this valley, and no one ever moved out. 
    No one bought cigarettes in Santaroga. 

    No cheese, wine, beer or produce from outside the valley could be sold there.

     The list went on and on and grew stranger and stranger.

    Maybe Santaroga was the last outpost of American individualism. 

    Maybe they were just a bunch of religious kooks. . . .

    Or maybe there was something extraordinary at work in Santaroga. 


    Something far more disturbing than anyone could imagine....IN FRANCE OR ELSEWHERE

    O DIABO -SCENAS D'ALDEIA - MONTEIRO RAMALHO 1881 - ENTRE OS DA ALDEIA CORRIA O BOATO QUE A MARIA A VELHA BRUXA QUE BOTAVA CARTAS E PREPARAVA ENGUIÇOS UM POÇO DE PERNICIOSIDADES INGRÍCOLAS, UM DEMÓNIO SOB A FORMA ASQUEROSAMENTE FEMININA HAVIA DE ESTOURAR COMO UMA GRANADA INFERNAL, NO ROCIO À MEIA NOUTE

    OS PACÓVIOS COMO NÃO TORNARAM A VER QUALQUER D'ELLAS

    ASSEGURAVAM QUE ERAM AGORA LOBIS-HOMENS DEVORADORES

    A CÓRJA D'ESTUPIDEZ N'ESTE PAIZ ONDE A SUPERSTIÇÃO COMANDA

    É MAL PARA DURAR SÉCULOS SENÃO MAIS DE QU'ISSO

    É ENGUIÇO. É ENGUIÇO

    diumenge, 25 de maig de 2014

    ANTERIORES VITAE - LUMEN - CAMILLE FLAMMARION- MUNDO DE ANDROMEDA, A ATMOSPHERA ROSADA QUASI LIQUIDA QUE O ENCHE COMPLETAMENTE COMO UM OCEANO SEM ILHAS É A MORADA DOS SERES ANIMADOS D'AQUELLE GLOBO...FLUTUAM CONSTANTEMENTE A FÓRMA D'ESTA RAÇA HUMANA É A DAS SEREIAS D'ANTIGAMMENTE

    Orion still reigned in
    the ultra-equatorial region, the Great Bear
    pursuing his circular course still pointing to
    the north. In comparing the apparent move-
    ments, and co-ordinating them scientifically,
    I calculated that the point where I saw the
    group of the Sun, the Earth, and the planets,
    marked the 17th hour of right ascension, that
    is to say, about the 256th degree, or nearly so.
    I had no instrument to take exact measure-
    ments. I observed, in the second place, that it Lumen
    was on the 44th degree from the South Pole. thrSe"

    I made these observations to ascertain the star ^^ere h

    was in
    on which I then was, and I was led to con- space

    elude that I was on a star situated on the
    70th degi-ee of right ascension, and the 46th
    degree of north declination. On the other hand,
    I knew from the words of the old man that
    the star on which we were was not far from
    our Sun, since he considered it to be one of
    the neighbouring stars. From these data I had
    no difficulty in recalling the star that stands
    33 c



    LUMEN

    in the position I had determined. One only
    answered to it^ that of the first magnitude.
    Alpha in the constellation of Auriga, named
    also Capella, or the Goat.

    Tliere was no doubt about this. Thus I was
    certain that I was on one of the planetary worlds
    of the sun Capella. From thence our Sun looks
    like a simple star, and appeai-s in perspective
    to be in the constellation of the Altar, just
    opposite that of Auriga, as seen from the Earth.

    Then I tried to remember what was the

    parallax of this star. I recalled that a friend

    of mine, a Russian astronomer, had made a

    calculation, which had been confirmed, of this

    parallax. It was proved to be 0,"04'6. — When

    I had thus solved the mystery my heart beat

    with joy. Every geometrician knows that

    parallax indicates mathematically the distance

    in units of the magnitude employed in the

    calculation. I sought then to recall exactly

    the distance Avhich separated this star from

    the Earth, in order to prove the accuracy of

    the calculation. I only needed to find out

    what number corresponded to 0,"046.^

    ^ Every one knows that the farther an object is, the
    smaller it appears. An object which is seen under an
    angle of one second, is at a distance of 20(;,265 times
    its own diameter, whatever it may be ; because as there
    are 1,296,000 seconds in the circumference, the ratio
    between the circumference and its diameter being
    34



    RESURRECTIO PR.ETERITI

    N

    Expressed in millions of leagues, this num-
    ber is 170,392,000, and so, from the star
    on which I was, the Earth was distant 170
    billions 392 thousand millions of leagues. The
    principle was thus established, and the pro-
    blem was three parts solved. Now, here is the
    main point, to which I call your special atten-
    tion, for you will find in it an explanation The velocity
    of the most marvellous realities. Light, you ° ^
    know, does not cross instantaneously from one
    place to another, but in successive waves. If
    you throw a stone into a pool of tranquil water,
    a series of undulations form around the point
    where the stone fell. In the same way, sound
    undulates in the air when passing from one
    point to another, and thus, also, light travels
    in space — it is transmitted in successive un-
    dulations. The light of a star takes a certain
    time to reach the Earth, and this time naturally
    depends on the distance which separates the
    star from the Earth.

    3,14159 X 2, it follows that this object is at a distance
    equal to 206,265 times its own diameter. As Capella
    sees the semi-diameter of the terrestrial orbit only
    under an angle 22 times smaller, its distance is 22
    times greater. Capella is therefore at a distance of
    4,484,000 times the radius of the terrestrial orbit.
    Future micrometrical measurements may modify these
    results concerning the parallax of this star, but they
    cannot change the principle upon which the concep-
    tion of this work is grounded.
    35



    How the
    lieavenly
    bodies are
    sesD.



    LUMEN

    Sound travels 340 metres in a second. A
    cannon shot is heard immediately by those who
    fire itj a second later by persons who are at a
    distance of 340 metres, in three seconds by
    those who are a kilometre off, twelve seconds
    after the shot at four kilometres. It takes two
    minutes to reach those who are ten times far-
    ther off, and those who live at a distance of a
    hundred kilometres hear this human thunder
    in five minutes. Light travels with much
    greater swiftness, but it is not transmitted in-
    stantaneously, as the ancients supposed. It
    travels at the rate of 300,000 kilometres per
    second, and if it could revolve^ might encircle
    the Earth eight times in a second. Light
    occupies one second and a quarter to come
    from the Moon to the Earth, eight minutes
    and thirteen seconds to come from the Sun,
    forty-two minutes to come from Jupiter, two
    hours to come from Uranus, and four hours
    to come from Nejitune. Therefore, we see
    the heavenly bodies not as they are at the
    moment we observe them, but as they were
    when the luminous ray which reaches us left
    them. If a volcano were to burst forth in
    eruption on one of the worlds I have named,
    we should not see the fiames in the Moon till a 


    I saw that he was describing the great Revolution of 1789,
    and the fall of the old political
    world before the new regime.
    Very mournfully they had followed the events of the Reign of
    Terror and the tyranny of that bloody time.
    They trembled for the future of the Earth,
    and felt doubtful of the progress of a humanity
    which, when emancipated, so soon lost the
    treasure it had just acquired. I took care not
    to let the senator know that I had just arrived
    from the Earth myself, and that I had lived
    there seventy-two years.
    I do not know whether he was aware of this, but I was so
    much surprised by this vision before me that
    it completely absorbed my mind and I did
    not think of myself.

    At last my sight was fully developed, and I
    perceived the spectacle in all its details. I
    could distinguish, in the midst of the Place
    Formidable array of war, drums, cannon, and Revolution.

    a motley crowd armed with pikes. A cart,
    led by a man in red, bore the remains of
    Louis XVI. in the direction of the Faubourg
    St. Honore. An intoxicated mob lifted their
    fists to heaven. Some horsemen, sabre in
    hand, mournfully followed. Towards the
    Champs-Elysees there were ditches into which
    the curious stumbled. But the agitation was
    concentrated in this region. It did not ex-
    tend into the town, which appeared dead and deserted ;
    the terror had thrown it into a state
    of lethargy.

    I was not present during the events of 1789
    since that was the year of ray birth, and I felt
    an inexpressible interest in being thus a witness
    of these scenes of which I had read in history,
    I have often discussed and debated the vote of
    the Convention, but I confess to you I see no
    excuse of state in the execution of such men
    as Lavoisier, the creator of chemistry, Bailly,
    the historian of astronomy, Andre Chenier, the
    sweet poet, or the condemnation of Condorcet,
    the philosopher. These have I'oused my in-
    dignation much more than the punishment of
    Louis XVI. I was intensely interested at being
    thus a witness of this vanished epoch. But you
    may imagine how much greater was my surprise,
    and how much more I was astonished, that I be-
    held in 1864 events actually present before me which
    had taken place at the end of the last century.

    E O PARTIDO DO MOVIMENTO ESQUIZOFRÉNICO PELA TERRA PLANA POSICIONA-SE COMO EXTREMA-DIREITA MAIS AO MENOS AO CENTRÃO DESTE PORTUGAL DE FALANGES E GANGS ROLANTES EM PERPÉTUO MOVIMENTO - Лабиринт отражений Текущая версия страницы пока не проверялась опытными участниками и может значительно отличаться от версии, проверенной 11 ноября 2011; проверки требуют 20 правок. Текущая версия «Лабири́нт отраже́ний» (1997) — фантастический роман Сергея Лукьяненко, первая часть трилогии романов в стиле киберпанк «Лабиринт отражений». Сюжет[править | править исходный текст] В 1994 году неким Дмитрием Дибенко был изобретен компьютерный видеоролик (дип-программа), после просмотра которого человек начинал воспринимать виртуальный мир как реальный. Крупнейшие мировые корпорации, «Майкрософт» и «IBM», поспешили воспользоваться им для создания в виртуальности (или глубине) города Диптауна, в котором у людей могла бы быть никем не ограниченная свобода. Замысел удался, и город заселили люди со всего земного шара. Войдя в глубину, обычные люди теряли волевую возможность выйти в реальный мир когда им захочется. Они могли выходить обратно исключительно через свой дом в виртуальности или по срабатыванию таймера (запускающего ту же дип-программу в режиме выхода). Но некоторые обладали способностью в любой момент покинуть глубину по собственному желанию — их называли дайверами. Дайверов было очень мало, они не афишировали свои возможности и избегали браться за штатную работу. Главный герой книги Леонид — дайвер. Его работа в виртуальном мире заключается в спасении посетителей Диптауна, застрявших в глубине, — иногда люди настолько увлекались виртуальностью, что совершенно не отличали её от реального мира («дип-психоз»). Часто страдающие «дип-психозом» забывали включить таймер выхода и могли погибнуть от истощения. Кроме того, Леонид занимается кражей различного софта и информации в виртуальности. Он получает очередное задание — проникнуть в компанию «Аль-Кабар», занимающую целый защищенный квартал Диптауна, и украсть оттуда секретный файл. Однако это оказывается некой проверкой: в «Аль-Кабар» мог проникнуть только дайвер. Леонида встречает охрана и проводит его к главе корпорации Фридриху Урману. Урман пытается предложить постоянное сотрудничество дайверу, но Леонид отказывается, ссылаясь на кодекс дайверов. Тогда Урман отдаёт файл Леониду и договаривается с ним о том, что Леонид свяжется с ним для выполнения разовой работы — по его словам «Аль-Кабар» нуждается в услугах дайвера. Леониду дают уйти с «похищенным» файлом. После этого Диптаун наполняется слухами об ограблении «Аль-Кабара» неизвестным дайвером. Леонида находит Человек Без Лица и предлагает ему работу, платой за которую обещает бесценную Медаль Вседозволенности, дающую право на любые действия в Диптауне. Работа состоит в том, чтобы спасти из «Лабиринта Смерти» — эволюционировавшей игры «Doom» — застрявшего на 33-м уровне игрока, Неудачника. Леонид с трудом справляется с поставленной задачей, однако в процессе понимает, что к Неудачнику проявляют немалый интерес две корпорации, «Аль-Кабар» и «Лабиринт смерти», а также Дима Дибенко (скрывающийся под маской Человека Без Лица). Леонид подозревает, что Неудачник не человек, а программа или даже «пришелец», и отказывается его выдать. На них начинается охота. Главные герои[править | править исходный текст] Леонид («Стрелок», «Элениум», «Иван-царевич») — дайвер, получивший задание вытащить Неудачника из «Лабиринта смерти». «Неудачник» («Альен», «Пловец») — игрок в «Лабиринт смерти», застрявший на 33-м уровне. По предположению Леонида — пришелец. Дмитрий Дибенко считал его человеком из будущего, Гильермо Агирре — пришельцем из параллельного мира, Фридрих Урман - человеком, способным входить в Глубину самостоятельно, без технических средств. Вика («Мадам», «Макрель») — дайвер, хозяйка виртуального заведения «Всякие забавы». Психолог, пространственный дизайнер. Бордель в Глубине создала в процессе написания диссертации по изучению поведения людей в «виртуальности». Дима Дибенко («Человек Без Лица») — хакер, программист, изобретатель программы «Deep». Единственный в глубине обладатель Медали Вседозволенности. Фридрих Урман — глава корпорации «Аль-Кабар». Гильермо Агирре («Вилли») — начальник службы безопасности игровой корпорации «Лабиринт смерти». Шурка («Маньяк») — хакер, программист, специалист по компьютерным вирусам. Реальный прототип — Александр «Маньяк» Зимин. «Компьютерный Маг» («Маг», «Зуко») — хакер, штатный программист виртуального заведения «Всякие забавы»; ранее работал программистом в той же фирме, что и Леонид. Своё прозвище получил из-за пристрастия к растворимым напиткам. Реальный прототип — Сергей «Computer Mage» Кузнецов. Многие случаи связанные с «Зуко» взяты из жизни прототипа. Ромка («Серый Волк») — дайвер, напарник Леонида. В реальности 15-тилетний школьник, злоупотребляющий крепким алкоголем и табаком в виртуальности. Дик («Крэйзи Тоссер») — штатный дайвер игровой корпорации «Лабиринт смерти». Анатоль — штатный дайвер игровой корпорации «Лабиринт смерти». Джордан Рейд — комиссар службы безопасности Диптауна. «Алекс» — игрок в «Лабиринт смерти», жаждущий мести из-за того, что Леонид убил его на первом уровне лабиринта. В реальности 42-летний мужчина. «Кепочка» — психолог, поставивший себе цель доказывать людям бессмысленность их деятельности, в связи с чем хронически выводит из себя виртуальщиков, особенно — проституток, ролевиков и других людей. Посетитель виртуального заведения «Всякие забавы» и «объект изучения»

    Лабиринт отражений
    Текущая версия страницы пока не проверялась опытными участниками и может значительно отличаться от версии, проверенной 11 ноября 2011; проверки требуют 20 правок.
    Текущая версия

    «Лабири́нт отраже́ний» (1997) — фантастический роман Сергея Лукьяненко, первая часть трилогии романов в стиле киберпанк «Лабиринт отражений».

    Сюжет[править | править исходный текст]

    В 1994 году неким Дмитрием Дибенко был изобретен компьютерный видеоролик (дип-программа), после просмотра которого человек начинал воспринимать виртуальный мир как реальный. Крупнейшие мировые корпорации, «Майкрософт» и «IBM», поспешили воспользоваться им для создания в виртуальности (или глубине) города Диптауна, в котором у людей могла бы быть никем не ограниченная свобода. Замысел удался, и город заселили люди со всего земного шара.

    Войдя в глубину, обычные люди теряли волевую возможность выйти в реальный мир когда им захочется. Они могли выходить обратно исключительно через свой дом в виртуальности или по срабатыванию таймера (запускающего ту же дип-программу в режиме выхода). Но некоторые обладали способностью в любой момент покинуть глубину по собственному желанию — их называли дайверами. Дайверов было очень мало, они не афишировали свои возможности и избегали браться за штатную работу.

    Главный герой книги Леонид — дайвер. Его работа в виртуальном мире заключается в спасении посетителей Диптауна, застрявших в глубине, — иногда люди настолько увлекались виртуальностью, что совершенно не отличали её от реального мира («дип-психоз»). Часто страдающие «дип-психозом» забывали включить таймер выхода и могли погибнуть от истощения.

    Кроме того, Леонид занимается кражей различного софта и информации в виртуальности. Он получает очередное задание — проникнуть в компанию «Аль-Кабар», занимающую целый защищенный квартал Диптауна, и украсть оттуда секретный файл. Однако это оказывается некой проверкой: в «Аль-Кабар» мог проникнуть только дайвер. Леонида встречает охрана и проводит его к главе корпорации Фридриху Урману. Урман пытается предложить постоянное сотрудничество дайверу, но Леонид отказывается, ссылаясь на кодекс дайверов. Тогда Урман отдаёт файл Леониду и договаривается с ним о том, что Леонид свяжется с ним для выполнения разовой работы — по его словам «Аль-Кабар» нуждается в услугах дайвера. Леониду дают уйти с «похищенным» файлом. После этого Диптаун наполняется слухами об ограблении «Аль-Кабара» неизвестным дайвером.

    Леонида находит Человек Без Лица и предлагает ему работу, платой за которую обещает бесценную Медаль Вседозволенности, дающую право на любые действия в Диптауне. Работа состоит в том, чтобы спасти из «Лабиринта Смерти» — эволюционировавшей игры «Doom» — застрявшего на 33-м уровне игрока, Неудачника. Леонид с трудом справляется с поставленной задачей, однако в процессе понимает, что к Неудачнику проявляют немалый интерес две корпорации, «Аль-Кабар» и «Лабиринт смерти», а также Дима Дибенко (скрывающийся под маской Человека Без Лица). Леонид подозревает, что Неудачник не человек, а программа или даже «пришелец», и отказывается его выдать. На них начинается охота.
    Главные герои[править | править исходный текст]

    Леонид («Стрелок», «Элениум», «Иван-царевич») — дайвер, получивший задание вытащить Неудачника из «Лабиринта смерти».
    «Неудачник» («Альен», «Пловец») — игрок в «Лабиринт смерти», застрявший на 33-м уровне. По предположению Леонида — пришелец. Дмитрий Дибенко считал его человеком из будущего, Гильермо Агирре — пришельцем из параллельного мира, Фридрих Урман - человеком, способным входить в Глубину самостоятельно, без технических средств.
    Вика («Мадам», «Макрель») — дайвер, хозяйка виртуального заведения «Всякие забавы». Психолог, пространственный дизайнер. Бордель в Глубине создала в процессе написания диссертации по изучению поведения людей в «виртуальности».
    Дима Дибенко («Человек Без Лица») — хакер, программист, изобретатель программы «Deep». Единственный в глубине обладатель Медали Вседозволенности.
    Фридрих Урман — глава корпорации «Аль-Кабар».
    Гильермо Агирре («Вилли») — начальник службы безопасности игровой корпорации «Лабиринт смерти».
    Шурка («Маньяк») — хакер, программист, специалист по компьютерным вирусам. Реальный прототип — Александр «Маньяк» Зимин.
    «Компьютерный Маг» («Маг», «Зуко») — хакер, штатный программист виртуального заведения «Всякие забавы»; ранее работал программистом в той же фирме, что и Леонид. Своё прозвище получил из-за пристрастия к растворимым напиткам. Реальный прототип — Сергей «Computer Mage» Кузнецов. Многие случаи связанные с «Зуко» взяты из жизни прототипа.
    Ромка («Серый Волк») — дайвер, напарник Леонида. В реальности 15-тилетний школьник, злоупотребляющий крепким алкоголем и табаком в виртуальности.
    Дик («Крэйзи Тоссер») — штатный дайвер игровой корпорации «Лабиринт смерти».
    Анатоль — штатный дайвер игровой корпорации «Лабиринт смерти».
    Джордан Рейд — комиссар службы безопасности Диптауна.
    «Алекс» — игрок в «Лабиринт смерти», жаждущий мести из-за того, что Леонид убил его на первом уровне лабиринта. В реальности 42-летний мужчина.
    «Кепочка» — психолог, поставивший себе цель доказывать людям бессмысленность их деятельности, в связи с чем хронически выводит из себя виртуальщиков, особенно — проституток, ролевиков и других людей. Посетитель виртуального заведения «Всякие забавы» и «объект изучения»

    dissabte, 24 de maig de 2014

    BREVIÁRIO DO DESENCANTO POLÍTICO - VEM AÍ A REVIRA ...ASSIM DIZ O POVO, NO ALEMTEJO SIGNIFICA O ADVENTO DO SOVIETISMO RURAL A REVIRAVOLTA A PASSAGEM BRUSCA PARA OS QUE NÃO TEEM DE TUDO QUANTO TEM OS QUE TEEM - O HOMEM A LADEIRA E O CALHAU - AGOSTINHO DE CAMPOS - NOS LOUCOS ANOS QUASE 20 DO SÉCULO DO MESMO NOME...

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    VEM AÍ A REVIRA

    CONVIDADA E PROVOCADA PELOS POLÍTICOS REPUBLICANOS

    QUE NÃO DESISTEM DE TIRAR AO SENHOR SIDÓNIO PAIS

    O PODER QUE ELE LHES TIROU EM DEZEMBRO

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    PRÁTICAS A QUE ELA NÃO PODE DEIXAR DE CONDUZIR

    1ª A DITADURA BRAVA

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    MORRA SANSÃO E TODOS OS QUE AQUI ESTÃO

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    divendres, 23 de maig de 2014

    HOJE A POPULAÇA DE LISBOA NÃO TEM PITORESCO, NÃO TEM FISIONOMIA, NEM OBVIAMENTE ADMITIMO-LO NÃO TEM CARÁCTER--UMA MULTIDÃO BAÇA E SOMBRIA DE PAINELEIROS -TYPOS NACIONAES - DAS MULHERES DE LEIRIA QUE APREGOAM ROSÁRIOS DE PINHÕES DAS REGATEIRAS DE MELANCIA DE SETÚBAL ENFIM TODA UMA FAUNA E FLORA EXÓTICA QUE DEMANDAVA LIVREMENTE OS PALHAÇOS ALFACINHAS DE LESBOA QU'ERA BOA COMÓ MILHO

    a Empresa Literária Fluminense

    apresenta hoje a público o terceiro volume dos «.Escriptos literários e políticos, de Latino Coelho: Typos Nacionaes.

    PREFÁCIO DE JÚLIO DANTAS 

     Quem ler o prefácio admirável da (a Oração da Coroa ), dum corte literário severo e opulento, e folhear depois esta pequena série de caricaturas rápidas, traçadas com uma scintilação, uma vivacidade, uma graciosidade a que estava pouco habituada a literatura neo-romântica portuguesa, tem a medida justa de quanto podia e valia, nas suas mÚLtiplas expressões, a prosa ondulante, colorida, adaptável, infinitamente maleável de Latino, A galena dos tipos colhidos em flagrante pelo grande escritor, não é vasta; ela abrange, entretanto, algumas figuras da tipologia nacional, como o Gaiato, a Coquette, o Janota, o Carteiro, a Rendeira de Peniche; outras, que representam sínteses de costumes políticos, como o Pretendente, 

    o Novelleiro, o Deputado; outras ainda, de menos amplitude típica, que não são outra coisa senão sátiras pessoais, como o Poeta de álbuns, o Folhetinista pedante, etc. Como o título deste livro pode jÁ supor que se trata dum mais largo estudo dos costumes populares portugueses, aproveitarei o ensejo para desenvolver algumas considerações acerca da sua iconografia. Os  tipos das ruas da Lisboa velha, tão vivos e tão característicos ainda há quarenta e há cinquenta anos, expressão risonha e tradicional dos antigos costumes, dos anti- gos usos e do antigo espírito da cidade pombalina, desapareceram quAsi de todo, como sombras, na monotonia cosmopolita da cidade nova. O povo lisboeta vai perdendo, cada dia  que passa, o pouco que ainda lhe resta de pitoresco e de característico. O facto só pode ter uma significação agradável para quem, como Bergson, pensa que a desaparição dos « tipos e a uniformidade das multidões é uma consequência do progresso das sociedades civilizadas. Há, porém, quem assista com tristeza à crescente descaracterização do nosso povo e pretenda ver nela, com mais emoção do que espirito filosófico, um sintoma de desagregação do carácter nacional. Quanto a mim, limito-me a comentar, como artista e como etnógrafo, a morte das últimas relíquias de tradição e de pitoresco que, ainda na mociDAde dos velhos que me lêem, eram o sorriso, a côr, a fisionomia, a graça da antiga Lisboa apostólica dos Intendentes, dos Patriarcas e das procissões. Desapareceram os tipos das ruas. Mas não se perdeu tudo, porque nos ficaram os elementos indispensáveis para os reconstituir. O tipo morreu; o documento ficou. Desde lá atè aos Nossos dias, como se a cada passo, durante um século inteiro, se previsse e temesse a desaparição da tipologia tradicional lisboeta, desenhadores, litôgrafos, gravadores, aguar distas pacientes, em grande parte estrangeiros, foram-na reproduzindo e fixando  nas suas formas mais características, com uma devoção e um carinho que, ainda quando não vencem a nossa admiração, nem por isso deixam de ser credores do nosso reconhecimento. A iconografia dos costumes portugueses do fim do século XVIII, principio do sé- culo XIX, é bastante vasta, e eu conheço amadores de estampas, duma paciência bene- ditina, que possuem todas as colecções publi- cadas, desde a série oferecida ao marquês de Tancos, em iSo6, por Manuel Godinho, até às colecções de Macphail e de Joubert (1841-42); desde as gravuras de James 13 Murphy, as mais antigas de iodas (ly^^), até às séries aguardadas com um tão vivo sentimento do pitoresco por William Bra- dford (1808), por Henri VEvêque (1814), por Whittaker (1828), pelo reverendo Kinsey (182^), — sem esquecer os documentos recen- tes de Manuel de Macedo, de Roque Gameiro, de Alberto Sousa. Folhear estas colecções é evocar a Lisboa dos nossos avós. Confesso que nunca o faço sem um vivo sentimento de ternura, quási de saudade, — dessa vaga e penetrante sau- dade, ioda intelectual, só conhecida daqueles que, à força de reconstituir na imaginação e 14 no sonho as imagens e as coisas do passado chegam a criar-se a ilusão de que as viram, de que as sentiram, de que as viveram. De resto, não é preciso ser muito velho para ter visto ainda algtms desses curiosos tipos das ruas alfacinhas, senão nas primitivas versões fixadas tão amorosamente na obra de VOSSA EXCELÊNCIA que, ao menos nas sobrevivências bastardas da Lisboa de 1868. Decerto alguns dos portugueses que me lêem conheceram ainda, nas tardes doiradas do Rocio velho, os bolieiros das seges de aluguel de Lisboa, com a sua cabeça chamorra, o seu chapéu alto de pêlo de coelho, o seu chicote no sovaco, a sua  espora de latão num pé só; lembram-se dos pretos-caiadores, que faziam quarTel-general no largo de S, Domingos; das mulheres de capote-e- lenço ; dos chanfaneiros matinais, de alforjes mouriscos pojando hortaliças verdes e viçosas; do homem do briche da Covilhã, que corria as ruas, queimado do sol da montanha, com o seu chapeirão e o seu côvado; da preta- -do-mexilhão, desnalgada, saracoteada, viva, garrindo o seu a^aio, aio!» e as suas lençarias vermelhas; das vendedeiras de palitos e rocas; dos tojeiros broncos de Alcochete; das mulheres de Leiria, que apregoavam rosários de pinhões; dos archeiros; dos pretos de S. Jorge; dos andadores das almas; dos aguadeiros do Porto, de capote e pescoceira de rendas, senhores de todos os nobres chafarizes da cidade; dos farricocos da tumba da Misericórdia; dos azeiteiros; das mulheres do ale- crim; das risonhas saloias dos pãezinhos de Meleças, com os seus ceirões e as suas carapuças bicudas de veludo de cores, — e, se esses remotos compatriotas não voltaram mais a Lisboa, como deve maguá-los agora a certeza de que todas estas figuras, tão tipicamente nacionais, tão retintamente lisboetas, se perderam, se descaracterizaram, se sumiram como sombras de fumo Em névoa confusa do tempo!  E quando estas, que ainDa são de ontem, já não existem, — onde irão as outras, as mais antigas, cheias ainda da vaga poeira de oiro do século XVIII, flor e graça das mas da cidade velha, que tão hem se casavam com as rótulas verdes, com os ressaltos alpendrados, com os painéis de azulejo, com os oratórios carinhosos, com as betesgas estreitinhas da Lisboa de Pombal e de Pina Manique! Quem se recorda jd dos josézinhos encarnados que fizeram o encanto da marquesa de Abrantes; dos mariolas de capote que coçavam os cunhais do Rocio; dos cegos das folhinhas, com os seus moços descalços; dos pobres- TYPOS NACIONAES da-sanfona; das pretas calhandreiras que faZiam os despejos da cidade; do gaiteiro e do tambor do peditório do Santíssimo; dos ilhavos da sardinha; dos malteses da alféloa; das regateiras das melancias de Setúbal, com a sua saia de saragoça e a sua verónica da Senhora do Pilar; dos louceiros de Molelos; dos remadores dos bergantins reais; das mu- lheres de bioco e mantéu, à moda do Parto; dos meninos-órfãos ; dos segeiros da Assembléa; dos capuchos que mendigavam pelas ruas, de sandálias e alforje ás costas, bebendo, abençoando, namorando, cantando? Tudo se desfEZ tudo morreu, tudo passou. Hoje, a  população de Lisboa não tem pitoresco, nem fisionomia, nem carácter. Uma única excepção se mantêm : o varino, — que, na intransigência duma raça aparte, conserva ainda, com a esbelteZA fenícia do seu tipo, a tradição quAsi intacta dos seus costumes. Mas esse mesmo não resistirá, — e o povo da antiga cidade pombalina, o povo tão característico que Kinsey, e YEvêque, e Whittaker pintaram, cheio de graça típica e de colorida expressão, será amanhã, apenas, uma multidão baça, igual, sombria, uniforme . .  o GAIATO , primeiro typo da serie que vamos estudar, é um ente repugnante pelos seus hábitos, e até o seu nome soa equivocamente aos ouvidos castos e delicados. É, sem duvida. Mas o gaiato é um typo nacional, commum. O gaiato que vagueia, nas horas continuas da sua ociosidade, pelas ruas de Lisboa, contém muitas vezes em si o gérmen dos destinos da pátria, e traz, nos farrapos com que se pavoneia ao sol ardente de (*) Da Revista Popular, vol. iv, Lisboa, 1851. julho, OU á chuva copiosa de dezembro, o annuncio mysterioso das galas com que poderá ainda vir a pompear, se a fortuna lhe sorrir beneficente. O gaiato hoje não é um ser que representa a degradação da espécie humana no primeiro alvorecer da vida. Hoje é uma posição social, que serve como de ponto de partida para destinos gloriosos ou ignóbeis, lucrativos ou miseráveis. Desde que a vida social desdenhou o cantinho domestico para se espanejar ao soalheiro, desde que a rua é o verdadeiro theatro onde a civilisação vae desfilando, entre os applausos e as pateadas de espectadores antagonistas, o gaiato que vive na rua, que respira, não dizemos já o ar livre, mas o ar desenfreado de Alfama, ou do Bairro Alto, tem grandes probabilidades de poder aggregar-se á procissão social, que se desenrola diante dos seus olhos, e de insinuar-se commodamente n'um dos poros d'este grande corpo putrefacto, a que se chama a sociedade. O gaiato é um ser privilegiado den- tro da familia humana. Quasi que nasce livre. Quasi que veiu ao mundo já heroe e protagonista de cem dramas grandiosos. Affeito ás durezas da vida, experi- mentado a todas as intempéries, pôde dizer que é o homem da natureza, livre como ella, ligeiro como o vento, sagaz como a raposa, bravo como o leão das selvas. O gaiato realisa todos os dias, á nossa vista, o mytho de Achilles heróico, gastando a puericia pelos bosques, e robustecendo o corpo com o exercício do arco, com medulla de leões, sob os auspicios do centauro Chiron. O gaiato é Achilles no meio de uma cidade populosa, enlameada, nas viellas estreitas e  infectas de um bairro escuso. Não come as medulas de leões, porque a civilisação, abrandando os costumes univer- saes, lhe dá por mesa lauta o chão in- teiro da cidade, e por iguarias os sobejos de ténues refeições. Não tem bosques onde vaguear, mas todas as praças lhe servem de circo. O centauro que o vigia, é apenas algum municipal prosaico, ou algum cabo de segurança, que vem por vezes perturbar os graves ofíicios em que o gaiato exerce fructuosamente a sua missão. O gaiato é folhetinista por Índole, por necessidade, raras vezes por distracção. Tem-se dito que o gaiato é ocioso. Falsidade. Raras vezes vereis o gaiato repousar-se indolente, e tomar os degraus de uma egreja, ou o recanto de um passeio de pedra, parodiando os ricos que trabalharam toda a vida para ter  um sophá voluptuoso, onde entregar-se ao prazer suino do som no oriental. O gaiato é observador por instincto, critico por habito. O gaiato nunca leu Horácio, e a satyra desponta-lhe nos lábios quasi com as primeiras palavras que solta, ainda gaguejadas, ao pôr os pés descalços sobre o basalto das ruas. O gaiato nunca viu as Guépes, de Alphonse Karr, nem a Revue de paris, de Eugéne Guinot, e a sua critica é impla- cável e perpetua. Apparece um ridículo, e o gaiato saudou-o logo com o dicterio, com a zombaria, com a apupada estron- dosa. Fértil em epigrammas, emprega a interjeição, e brada o piim! solemne e conciso a tudo o que na rua provoca justamente os folhetins verbaes da multidão. Se a interjeição é pouco, recorre á algazarra! Se a algazarra não basta, tem ainda, como soccorro extremo, o 28 O QAIATO projéctil que as ruas oíFerecem copiosa- mente. A critica toma no gaiato todas as formas. A velha presumida e ridicula pôde contar com um epigramma, se en- contra um gaiato idealista puro; pôde ver em perspectiva um rasgão na saia, se tiver o infortúnio de topar com um gaiato communista; ou preparar-se para ver entortar-se-lhe a pluma alabyrinthada do chapéo monstruoso ao choque de uma laranja podre, ou de uma folha de hortaliça, se deu com um d'estes gatu- nos, almas azougadas, e, por assim dizer, byronicas, que sô comprehenderiam o phantastico, de Manfredo, se fossem poetas, e que, sendo gaiatos, sô entendem o sublime da pedrada, e o magestoso da gebada formal. O gaiato ama o charivari sobre todas as coisas, e deleita-se, por conseguinte com a musica. A sua garganta, mais elástica que a do cantor mais victoriado, desata-se em melodias infernaes, ou em notas variadissimas de um assobio agudo e penetrante. O gaiato, que na vida so- cial é um typo e um tirocínio, è no mundo musical um meio que a Provi- dencia destinou a vulgarisar os cantos que devem tornar-se populares. O gaiato tem as suas relações com Rossini, e com Verdi, e — o que parece paradoxal e absurdo — é um ente indispensável á mais grandiosa reputação lyrica. Rossini inventa; a orchestra executa e vulgarisa a musica para as classes escolhidas e privilegiadas, que teem accesso ao san- ctuario da opera. As musicas marciaes e as philarmonicas caem de súbito a prear sobre as mais bellas melodias, e os mais sentidos trechos do maestro, O gaiato com o ouvido attento, foLgando e saltando jubilosamente ao ren- der das guardas, ou durante a revista dos batalhões, aprende, decora, e grita depois, pelas ruas e praças, as harmonias já abastardeadas pelo metallico charivari das bandas marciaes e das philarmoni- cas plebeias. O gaiato é uma espécie de Grátis para a vulgarisação das musicas populares. A Barcarola irá á posteridade, porque os gaiatos a souberam comprehender, e a descantaram em coros estrepitosos, no seu incessante lidar de flâneurs. O Beijo existe na memoria, e na garganta do povo, porque o gaiato repetiu até á saciedade as monótonas in- flexões d'aquella musica nacional. Quantas vezes, ao sair do theatro, janota, procurando em vão gargantear a polka da Esmeralda, ou a cahaletta mais singela, não ouve, com grande espanto seu, os sons, que procurava, sairem arrEdondados e vibrantes da larynge do gatuno que lhe segura o alazão ? O gaiato é o tronco de posições sociaes honradas e rendosas. Ás vezes o gaiato interrompe a sua carreira para ir procurar o seu futuro na pelle retumbante de um tambor. Arrebata-se e espanta-se de admiração diante de algum galopim, que marcha, agaloado e fiam- mante de atavios militares, batendo a cadencia do passo ordinário. Crê ouvir uma voz intima, que lhe segreda voluptuosamente ao ouvido os rufos doidejantes da alvorada, ou o toque melancólico de recolher. Crê-se inspirado, e como o génio italiano que bradava — io sono pittore,  — vê as baquetas, cruzadas entre uma auréola, sorrirem- Ihe como uma apparição sobrenatural. O gaiato julga-se feliz, sonha-se o Na- poleão dos rufos, e não é mais do que  um talento perdido, uma vocação este- rilisada para a sociedade. O gaiato, porém, que comprehendeu profundamente a sua missão, e que se iniciou nos mysterios da fortuna social, não passa em claro na sua vida aventu- rosa um só dos capitulos que se entre- laçam de necessidade na epopeia gatunai. De simples flâneur; de jogador inerte da chapinha; de comparsa em funcções de realejo; de perseguidor de gebos e caturras, passará a cauteleiro, a distribuidor, a groom de seges de aluguel, e a mercador de senhas á porta de S. Carlos. Iniciado assim nos segredos dos algarismos, poderá, com um patrocínio feliz, ascender á honra de recebedor, e passar successivamente por todos os graus da escala official até ser governador civil e par do reino. Amestrado nas lettras pelo contacto dos jornaes, redigirá o seu folhetim, e poderá aspirar á gloria de brilhar entre os redactores em chefe, figurando no frontispício de algum jornal obscuro, destinado a fazer, por dinheiro, o eterno panegyrico de alguma eterna corista de S. Carlos. Iniciado nos mysterios da cocheira, enthusiasta por cavallos, amador apaixonado do turf portuguez, pela convivência assídua com algum magro rocim, que lhe confia o janota á porta do Marrare, ou no Loreto, o gaiato virá a ser apontado como um óptimo cavalleiro, e o destino que vela sobre as grandes vocações, influirá para que chegue, antes da virilidade, a addido de alguma legação, ou a esposo de alguma viuva millionaria. Mas não vos persuadaes que é todo cor de rosa, e constellado de estrellas de oiro, o futuro do galopim. Malthus, e a sua escola económica, bem decidiram que no banquete social não havia talher para todos os convidados. A sociedade é, de feito, como um avaro que, n'um momento de ostentação e bizarria, convidasse a um sarau toda a gente da visinhança, e cerrasse a porta no rosto a metade dos que trouxessem bilhete de convite. Ha gaiatos que, sem vocação para a baqueta, não podem adquirir reputação militar, nem encaminhar-se, anchos e ufanos, ao generalato, ao titulo, ao pa- riato. Ha outros que, como um fructo verde e temporão, são colhidos, logo ao despontar da vida, e arrebatados na vora- gem dos groorns, para irem servir de aga- loados sganarellos a algum elegante im- provisado, ou para serem condemnados ao inglório mister de conduzir as galochas de uma condessa velha e arruinada ao baile da Horta-sêcca. Para estes o futuro o resume-se todo n'uns galões de prata, que teem recolhido em si o cebo de vinte gerações de lacaios numa família de barões arruinadissimos. O seu elysio todo é a trazeira carunchosa de uma sege monumental, cujas armarias só se retocam todos os annos; a sua esperança única, o pagamento das soldadas, que os amos illustres teem sabido transformar milagrosamente em luvas e charutos. Pois bem! Quando um gaiato não chega a barão, quando, passando por cau- teleiro e cambista, não alcança immortalisar o seu nome n'um empréstimo ao governo, como abastado capitalista, quando, conquistando uma viuva rica, não herda os milhões e os catarrhos de um primeiro marido, quando de boleeiro do semi-circulo não passa a empresário de carroções, então o gaiato fica perpetuamente á porta da estalagem social, como fica, na sua infância, ás grades do theatro, colhendo as senhas dos aborre- cidos, ou sopeando os ginetes cansados dos peraltas. O gaiato, que nasceu debaixo d'este horóscopo funesto, que lhe nega todo o accesso social, ficará sendo gaiato toda a vida, e, com o apontar da virilidade, receberá, como galardão dos seus ser- viços, o diploma de malandrino.

    O preço da monarchia, discurso de Latino Coelho, proferido na Camara dos pares nas sessões de 30 e 31 de março