diumenge, 31 de juliol de 2016

'Dieu me la donne, gare a qui la touche!' * They say he was very fine when he said that," he remarked, repeating the words in Italian: "'Dio mi l'ha dato. Guai a chi la tocchi!' * God has given it to me, let him who touches it beware! "I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glass run over," Anna Pavlovna continued. "The sovereigns will not be able to endure this man who is a menace to everything." "The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia," said the vicomte, polite but hopeless: "The sovereigns, madame... What have they done for Louis XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Elizabeth? Nothing!" and he became more animated. "And believe me, they are reaping the reward of their betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns! Why, they are sending ambassadors to compliment the usurper." And sighing disdainfully, he again changed his position. Prince Hippolyte, who had been gazing at the vicomte for some time through his lorgnette, suddenly turned completely round toward the little princess, and having asked for a needle began tracing the Conde coat of arms on the table. He explained this to her with as much gravity as if she had asked him to do it. "Baton de gueules, engrele de gueules d'azur—maison Conde," said he. The princess listened, smiling. "If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France a year longer," the vicomte continued, with the air of a man who, in a matter with which he is better acquainted than anyone else, does not listen to others but follows the current of his own thoughts, "things will have gone too far. By intrigues, violence, exile, and executions, French society—I mean good French society—will have been forever destroyed, and then...." He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. Pierre wished to make a remark, for the conversation interested him, but Anna Pavlovna, who had him under observation, interrupted: "The Emperor Alexander," said she, with the melancholy which always accompanied any reference of hers to the Imperial family, "has declared that he will leave it to the French people themselves to choose their own form of government; and I believe that once free from the usurper, the whole nation will certainly throw itself into the arms of its rightful king," she concluded, trying to be amiable to the royalist emigrant. "That is doubtful," said Prince Andrew. "Monsieur le Vicomte quite rightly supposes that matters have already gone too far. I think it will be difficult to return to the old regime." "From what I have heard," said Pierre, blushing and breaking into the conversation, "almost all the aristocracy has already gone over to Bonaparte's side." "It is the Buonapartists who say that," replied the vicomte without looking at Pierre. "At the present time it is difficult to know the real state of French public opinion." "Bonaparte has said so," remarked Prince Andrew with a sarcastic smile. It was evident that he did not like the vicomte and was aiming his remarks at him, though without looking at him. "'I showed them the path to glory, but they did not follow it,'" Prince Andrew continued after a short silence, again quoting Napoleon's words. "'I opened my antechambers and they crowded in.' I do not know how far he was justified in saying so." "Not in the least," replied the vicomte. "After the murder of the duc even the most partial ceased to regard him as a hero. If to some people," he went on, turning to Anna Pavlovna, "he ever was a hero, after the murder of the duc there was one martyr more in heaven and one hero less on earth." Before Anna Pavlovna and the others had time to smile their appreciation of the vicomte's epigram, Pierre again broke into the conversation, and though Anna Pavlovna felt sure he would say something inappropriate, she was unable to stop him. "The execution of the Duc d'Enghien," declared Monsieur Pierre, "was a political necessity, and it seems to me that Napoleon showed greatness of soul by not fearing to take on himself the whole responsibility of that deed." "Dieu! Mon Dieu!" muttered Anna Pavlovna in a terrified whisper. "What, Monsieur Pierre.. Do you consider that assassination shows greatness of soul?" said the little princess, smiling and drawing her work nearer to her. "Oh! Oh!" exclaimed several voices. "Capital!" said Prince Hippolyte in English, and began slapping his knee with the palm of his hand. The vicomte merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked solemnly at his audience over his spectacles and continued. "I say so," he continued desperately, "because the Bourbons fled from the Revolution leaving the people to anarchy, and Napoleon alone understood the Revolution and quelled it, and so for the general good, he could not stop short for the sake of one man's life." "Won't you come over to the other table?" suggested Anna Pavlovna. But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her. "No," cried he, becoming more and more eager, "Napoleon is great because he rose superior to the Revolution, suppressed its abuses, preserved all that was good in it—equality of citizenship and freedom of speech and of the press—and only for that reason did he obtain power." "Yes, if having obtained power, without availing himself of it to commit murder he had restored it to the rightful king, I should have called him a great man," remarked the vicomte. "He could not do that. The people only gave him power that he might rid them of the Bourbons and because they saw that he was a great man. The Revolution was a grand thing!" continued Monsieur Pierre, betraying by this desperate and provocative proposition his extreme youth and his wish to express all that was in his mind. "What? Revolution and regicide a grand thing?... Well, after that... But won't you come to this other table?" repeated Anna Pavlovna. "Rousseau's Contrat Social," said the vicomte with a tolerant smile. "I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking off

about ideas."
"Yes: ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide," again interjected an ironical voice.
"Those were extremes, no doubt, but they are not what is most important. What is important are the rights of man, emancipation from prejudices, and equality of citizenship, and all these ideas Napoleon has retained in full force."
"Liberty and equality," said the vicomte contemptuously, as if at last deciding seriously to prove to this youth how foolish his words were, "high-sounding words which have long been discredited. Who does not love liberty and equality? Even our Saviour preached liberty and equality. Have people since the Revolution become happier? On the contrary. We wanted liberty, but Buonaparte has destroyed it."
Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pierre to the vicomte and from the vicomte to their hostess. In the first moment of Pierre's outburst Anna Pavlovna, despite her social experience, was horror-struck. But when she saw that Pierre's sacrilegious words had not exasperated the vicomte, and had convinced herself that it was impossible to stop him, she rallied her forces and joined the vicomte in a vigorous attack on the orator.
"But, my dear Monsieur Pierre," said she, "how do you explain the fact of a great man executing a duc—or even an ordinary man who—is innocent and untried?"
"I should like," said the vicomte, "to ask how monsieur explains the 18th Brumaire; was not that an imposture? It was a swindle, and not at all like the conduct of a great man!"
"And the prisoners he killed in Africa? That was horrible!" said the little princess, shrugging her shoulders.
"He's a low fellow, say what you will," remarked Prince Hippolyte.
Pierre, not knowing whom to answer, looked at them all and smiled. His smile was unlike the half-smile of other people. When he smiled, his grave, even rather gloomy, look was instantaneously replaced by another—a childlike, kindly, even rather silly look, which seemed to ask forgiveness.
The vicomte who was meeting him for the first time saw clearly that this young Jacobin was not so terrible as his words suggested. All were silent.
"How do you expect him to answer you all at once?" said Prince Andrew. "Besides, in the actions of a statesman one has to distinguish between his acts as a private person, as a general, and as an emperor. So it seems to me."
"Yes, yes, of course!" Pierre chimed in, pleased at the arrival of this reinforcement.
"One must admit," continued Prince Andrew, "that Napoleon as a man was great on the bridge of Arcola, and in the hospital at Jaffa where he gave his hand to the plague-stricken; but ... but there are other acts which it is difficult to justify."
Prince Andrew, who had evidently wished to tone down the awkwardness of Pierre's remarks, rose and made a sign to his wife that it was time to go.
Suddenly Prince Hippolyte started up making signs to everyone to attend, and asking them all to be seated began:
"I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat you to it. Excuse me, Vicomte—I must tell it in Russian or the point will be lost...." And Prince Hippolyte began to tell his story in such Russian as a Frenchman would speak after spending about a year in Russia. Everyone waited, so emphatically and eagerly did he demand their attention to his story.
"There is in Moscow a lady, une dame, and she is very stingy. She must have two footmen behind her carriage, and very big ones. That was her taste. And she had a lady's maid, also big. She said...."
Here Prince Hippolyte paused, evidently collecting his ideas with difficulty.
"She said.... Oh yes! She said, 'Girl,' to the maid, 'put on a livery, get up behind the carriage, and come with me while I make some calls.'"
Here Prince Hippolyte spluttered and burst out laughing long before his audience, which produced an effect unfavorable to the narrator. Several persons, among them the elderly lady and Anna Pavlovna, did however smile.
"She went. Suddenly there was a great wind. The girl lost her hat and her long hair came down...." Here he could contain himself no longer and went on, between gasps of laughter: "And the whole world knew...."
And so the anecdote ended. Though it was unintelligible why he had told it, or why it had to be told in Russian, still Anna Pavlovna and the others appreciated Prince Hippolyte's social tact in so agreeably ending Pierre's unpleasant and unamiable outburst. After the anecdote the conversation broke up into insignificant small talk about the last and next balls, about theatricals, and who would meet whom, and when and where.



dissabte, 30 de juliol de 2016

The three Yanks were rushed out upon the parade ground at the Italian base. Two squads of shouting Italian soldiers escorted them. They burst upon a scene of confusion and excitement. Stan looked across the grounds toward the runways. Suddenly he burst out laughing and poked Allison in the ribs. "Look! His Nibs is deserting us!" General Bolero was leading his staff toward a parked plane. For a big fat man he was making fast time. His cape floated out behind him and he had lost his jaunty cap. His officers were loaded down with brief cases, files, and bundles of papers. The general was a full ten paces ahead of them. "I'd call that a rout," Allison shouted. "I think our outfits must be closing in. We'll have to do some stalling," Stan shouted. O'Malley was already stalling. Four men were pushing him along, and he was beginning[Pg 53] to show signs of temper. Stan tried to get close enough to shout a warning to him. He did not want O'Malley to start a riot at that moment. The Italians were evacuating the base in every sort of machine they had. Cars roared across the field, men pedaled by on bicycles, trucks lumbered past, and a whippet tank snorted as it rolled past dragging a field gun. Men on foot rushed in every direction. Stan stumbled and went down, managing to trip two soldiers. Instantly a dozen Italians were upon him, tugging at him, waving their rifles and shouting. O'Malley took this as a signal to go into action. He swung hard on the chin of an officer standing beside him. The surprised officer went down like a felled beef. With a yell O'Malley waded in, swinging at soldiers as they piled in on him. Many bloody noses and black eyes developed in a hurry, but O'Malley was swarmed under by the weight of sheer numbers. He went down yelling like a Comanche Indian and swinging like Joe Louis. Stan struggled to his feet and held up his hands. He realized the uselessness of fighting against such odds. The melee O'Malley had caused had drawn almost a company of Italians[Pg 54] to the spot. Allison had managed to stay on his feet, but he had suffered from rough handling along with Stan and O'Malley. His uniform, which was wet and sagging, had been torn in a dozen places. "Go quietly!" an Italian officer bellowed. He had just arrived on the scene. "Go quietly or you will be sorry!" "We're going, call off your dogs!" Stan shouted. The officer shouted orders in Italian and soon restored a semblance of order. Allison called across to Stan. "Have a look above, and you'll see what all the excitement is about." Stan looked into the sky and caught his breath. The paratroopers were coming. Low over the hilly country a fleet of transports and gliders swept in from the sea. They swept along in perfect formation like giant birds seeking a tree to light upon. Above them fighter planes wove in and out, while on either side fighter-bombers roared along. It was a beautiful sight. Suddenly the Yank air soldiers began to pile out. The sky blossomed with colored parachutes[Pg 55] until the blue was thickly dotted with them like a field crowded with spring flowers. They came floating down with machine guns and supply hassocks dangling from their chutes. On a slope above the field a glider nosed in. It slid to a halt and a jeep bounded out of its fat, rounded snout. Another glider slid in and a tank rolled out of it almost before it had slid to a halt. The slope above them was already swarming with Yanks, and machine guns were rattling. Stan looked around desperately. They were being rushed toward a big truck. He made one last attempt to slow down their retreat. Shaking off the men who held him, he ducked his head and hit the line of soldiers like a blocking back clearing a path for a ball carrier. Two Italians went down, one under a straight, stiff arm and the other from a solid body-block. Then a soldier clipped Stan across the head with the butt of his rifle. Stan went down on his face and lay still. O'Malley had started his fight again, but this time the Italians were not wasting precious minutes. O'Malley got a rap such as the one that had felled Stan. Allison went down under[Pg 56] a pile of soldiers. Two minutes later the three Yanks, out cold, were dumped into the truck and it was rumbling away along a paved road. A few minutes later Stan groaned and opened his eyes. The truck was so packed with soldiers that he was forced to sit up, even though he had been out limp and cold. His head throbbed and felt twice its normal size. Turning it a little he could look out over the side of the truck. They were rolling along a winding road, climbing in low gear. Looking back Stan saw the battlefield they had just left. The Yank airborne troops had swarmed onto the airfield. Already two big Yank planes had landed and men were spilling out to take over the field. With a groan Stan looked up. Twisting his head caused pains to shoot up and down his neck. He saw that the paratroopers were still coming in. A field of white chutes filled the air, while behind them dropped the varicolored chutes carrying equipment and ammunition. Gliders were casting off their toggle hooks and swooping earthward. Equipped with tommy-guns, folding rifles, mortars, folding bicycles, bazookas and light artillery, the air soldiers swarmed down.[Pg 57] Suddenly excited shouts from the Italians in the truck made Stan look up again. A fighter-bomber was roaring down toward the truck. Stan saw that there were three trucks in the group and that they were closely bunched, an ideal target for the diving Yank. Grimly he watched the hundred-pound egg slide free as the bomber lifted and zoomed upward. The deadly missile seemed to hang in the air for a moment, though it grew bigger and bigger every second. It appeared to be aimed straight at the last truck in line, which was their transport. Stan looked about for Allison and O'Malley. His pals were standing against the side of the truck, wedged in by soldiers. They both looked weak and shaken. O'Malley was almost without clothes. Then the bomb hit. It landed in a bank just behind the truck. A great upheaval of earth and rocks lifted into the air and showered over the truck. One rear tire exploded with a bang and the truck began to wobble and jolt as it swayed along. Then they broke over the top of the ridge and went careening down a steep slope. Five minutes later they had reached cover in an avenue of trees. But the Italians did not halt for repairs.[Pg 58] They wanted to put as many miles as possible between them and the Yank air army before their gas ran out. An hour later the truck limped into another airfield which had not been attacked. It was tucked away in a circle of hills with wooded slopes reaching down to a little valley. Here they found they had overtaken General Bolero. He was out on the field rushing about, shouting orders and apparently getting ready to take off again. His staff was trailing him about, with their bundles and brief cases and files. Stan and his pals were rushed into a small barracks room. The junior officer who spoke English had charge of them, backed by a dozen guards. "We will supply you with clothing," he said, casting his eye over their ragged uniforms. The clothing turned out to be blue shirts and bright green dungaree overalls. O'Malley glared at the officer. Stan grinned as he slipped into his outfit. "It would save you a lot of trouble if you just turned us loose," he suggested. "You will not escape. You will be sent to[Pg 59] Italy." The officer matched O'Malley's glare. "Sicily can never be taken. Our infallible leader Mussolini has said Sicily can never be taken." He waved his hands excitedly. "Your forces will be driven into the sea." "I'll bet you a bottle of your finest wine that half of the island is already taken," Stan answered. "I say, why don't you kick the Germans out and help us along?" Allison asked. He felt he might touch a sore spot in mentioning the Germans. The shot hit home. A flush spread over the face of the officer. "The Nazi dogs," he snapped. "We will deal with them after we have used them to help us." "Sure, an' they'll treat you like they did the Poles," O'Malley said. "An' it will serve you right well, you spalpeens." "We'd like to stop over here and rest a bit," Stan cut in. "We realize you treated us roughly because we made you a lot of trouble. We'll give you our parole. There'll be no more rough stuff." "You talkin' fer me?" O'Malley growled.[Pg 60] "I am," Stan said and gave O'Malley a hard look. "We'll see that you're a nice, well-behaved boy." "Agreed," Allison said, catching Stan's idea that he was playing for time. Even if they gave their parole it would not prevent their being captured by the Yanks. The officer smiled knowingly. "You would like to stay here. You think your air troops will take over this field. No, we will not be so foolish. You leave for Italy in one hour." He turned and marched out, after giving orders to the guards. "That's that," Stan said. "But we still have a chance. He didn't accept our parole." "They ought to be usin' their men to fight an' not be after keepin' a whole company here as guards," O'Malley grumbled. "After the show you put on, they need a company," Stan snapped. "If we'd been good boys, they might have left us with a couple of guards." "Who started the fuss?" O'Malley demanded. "I stumbled, but that was just to slow down[Pg 61] the procession," Stan answered. "I'll admit it was a mistake." "We'd better be doing some heavy thinking," Allison warned. "If we don't we'll spend the rest of this campaign in a prison camp." There was no time for thinking and very little chance to talk. The Yanks were hustled out to the runways and loaded into a shaky and battered Fiat 20, two-engine bomber. They were escorted by the two squads of guards who stood around with rifles at ready until the plane started down the runway. Stan was squeezed in between O'Malley and Allison. The space inside the bomber was very limited, for it was not intended as a passenger plane. Besides the pilot and copilot, two men armed with pistols sat in the cramped quarters. The Italians had very thoughtfully provided their prisoners with parachutes. One of the guards spoke English and was not unwilling to talk. Stan singled him out at once. "I have been in America," the guard said in a friendly fashion. "What city?" Stan asked. "New York. I stay one year."[Pg 62] "Didn't you like it?" Stan asked with a grin. "Sure, it was much good. I come back for my brother and then there is war. I must stay." The soldier shook his head sadly. "After the war you'll be going back?" Stan asked. "Sure. It is a fine place to live, New York. I make plenty money, got friends." The soldier smiled. "I will see you then." Stan laughed. "You sure will." His eyes were on the back of the pilot's neck. If O'Malley reached out he could touch the man flying the plane. Stan bent forward, at the same time signaling O'Malley with his knee in short and long taps. O'Malley finally woke up and answered the Morse SOS. As Stan talked to the soldier he also telegraphed to O'Malley and later to Allison. What Stan suggested was that they get control of the two pistols. The friendly soldier was bending closer. Stan would offer to show him some pictures from America that he had in his wallet. He would get the man off guard and when he had a chance would grab his pistol and push him over into the cramped back part[Pg 63] of the ship. O'Malley and Allison would have to get the other pistol. "I think I have some pictures you may recognize," Stan said. He fished out a wallet which the Italians had not taken from him. Opening it he pulled out several snapshots of planes he had piloted at one time or another, but he held them so that the soldier had to bend forward. The guard leaned over almost against Stan. Like a flash Stan's hand shot out and he had the pistol. He lunged forward at the same instant, planting his head in the guard's chest. The soldier went over his stool and landed in a cramped position in the narrow waist of the plane. O'Malley had leaped the instant Stan's hand shot out. Allison did a good imitation of an American tackle. The second guard lost his gun but put up a tussle. Stan wedged past the struggling men and jammed the pistol barrel into the neck of the pilot. "We'll take over now," he snapped. The pilot cringed forward while the copilot turned about

Italy has surrendered!" he announced. "You are free men!"
Before the Yanks could reply, Arno and Tony rushed in. They were very excited.
"This is the hour we have waited for," Tony shouted. "Now we will drive out the Black Shirt Fascisti and the Germans." The younger brothers embraced each other and danced up and down. Lorenzo smilingly watched them. Slowly he turned to the three surprised Yanks.[Pg 99] "My family—we have fought against the big-talking Mussolini. We belong to the society Free Italy."
"Great!" Allison exclaimed.
O'Malley was already headed for the door.
"Wait!" Lorenzo shouted after him. "I must tell you some things."
O'Malley halted and turned toward the door. "Sure, an' all I want is to get back into this fight."
"I am sure you do," Lorenzo said. "And I am going to help you."
"Good," Stan said.
Lorenzo took a fat package from his pocket. It was the package his father had given him. He held it out to Stan.
"Here are the locations of all German bases in Italy, the positions of batteries, the supply routes used, and all the military maps you will need. This is very important information."

divendres, 29 de juliol de 2016

Es ist unmöglich, in der hier erforderlichen Kürze eine erschöpfende Darstellung der anatomischen und funktionellen Differenzen zwischen dem kindhchen und ausgereiften Nervensystem zu geben. Unter Verzicht auf (oft noch strittige) Einzelheiten soll daher nur die makro- und mikro- morphologische Eigenart des Zentralorgans skizziert und darauf seine Sonderstellung in physiologisch-psychologischer Hinsicht kurz gewür- digt werden. Die aufzuführenden Tatsachen werden den Arzt genugsam auf die eminente Bedeutung hinweisen, welche die Hygiene des Säuglings- und Kindesalters, die eingehende Behandlung etwa eingetretener (nervöser usw.) Störungen nicht nur für das Kind selbst, sondern weittragend für das ganze spätere Leben des Menschen besitzen. I. Morphologische Besonderheiten. Abgesehen von der festen Verklebung der harten Hirnhaut mit der Innenfläche des Schädeldaches, von dem Fehlen der Pacchionischen Granu- lationen, der Kleinheit und größeren Zartheit aller Gebilde zeigt die Eröff- nung der Schädel- und Rückgratshöhle am kindlichen Zentralnervensystem zunächst wenig besonderes. Anordnung und Form der Teile, ihre Lagebe- ziehungen zur Umgebung stellen sich in situ dar wie beim Erwachsenen. Nur im Wirbelkanal ist dies teilweise anders. Bekanntlich endigt das Rückenmark des Erwachsenen zumeist im Be- reiche des untern Drittels des ersten und des oberen Abschnittes des zweiten Lenden- wirbels (in 40 "/o der Fälle sehr wenig tiefer oder höher). Beim Fötus dagegen füllt es zu Beginn der Entwicklung den Kanal bis zum Ende aus, von dann im Weiter- verlaufe des intrauterinen Lebens infolge der stärkeren Streckimg der Wirbelsäule und seines namentlich im Hals- und Lendenteil relativ geringen Längenwachstums mehr und mehr zurückzubleiben (ascensus meduUae spinaUs). Thiemieh-Zappert, Krankheiten d. Nervensystems. 1 Schädel- situs wie beim Er- wachsenen. Verhält- nisse im Wirbel- kanal diffe- rieren. 2 H. Pfister Ab- weichende Färbung der Schnitt- flächen. Hirn des Neugeborenen verhältnis mäßig groß. Absolute Hirn-gewichte. Hirn- Gewichts- zunahme.

An den Schnittflächen der Zentralorgane, 
insbesondere des Großhirns 
Jüngstgeborener, fällt dann verschiedentlich ein grauer Farbenton 
in die Augen, den wir beim erwachsenen 
Gehirne ganz vermissen; wir 
werden die histologische Ursache dieser eigenartigen Färbung kennen 
lernen, sowie wir erst die grobmorphologischen (Gewichts-, Maß-) Verhältnisse des kindlichen Nervensystems und ihre Veränderung im Laufe der 
Entwickhing genauer besprochen haben. — 

Das Gehirn ist beim Neugeborenen relativ groß. Die meisten 
körperlichen Organe wiegen bei der Geburt nur den 10. — 14., es schon den 
vierten Teil des definitiven Gewichtes. 

Auch im Vergleich zum Gesamtkörper imponiert sein Volumen 
mehr als beim Erwachsenen. Beträgt doch das Verhältnis des Hirngewichts 
zum Körpergewicht bei der Geburt ca. 1: 8,5 bis 1: 7,5 {Ziehen), auf der 
Lebenshöhe dagegen ca. 1 : 42 beim Manne, 1 : 40 bei der Frau, Avelche Werte 
ganz allmählich, unter besonders im ersten Lebensjahre langsamer Ver- 
schiebung des gegenseitigen Verhältnisses erreicht werden. 

dijous, 28 de juliol de 2016

For twenty of these years the author of this story has vaguely wondered what would replace the collapsed Soviet system. A return to Czarism? Oh, come now! Capitalism as we know it today in the advanced Western countries? It would seem difficult after almost half a century of State ownership and control of the means of production, distribution, communications, education, science. Then what? The question became increasingly interesting following recent visits not only to Moscow and Leningrad but also to various other capital cities of the Soviet complex. A controversial subject? Indeed it is. You can't get much more controversial than this in the world today. But this is science fiction, and here we go. P AUL KOSLOV nodded briefly once or twice as he made his way through the forest of desks. Behind him he caught snatches of tittering voices in whisper. "... That's him ... The Chief's hatchetman ... Know what they call him in Central America, a pistola, that means ... About Iraq ... And that time in Egypt ... Did you notice his eyes ... How would you like to date him ... That's him. I was at a cocktail party once when he was there. Shivery ... cold-blooded—" Paul Koslov grinned inwardly. He hadn't asked for the reputation but it isn't everyone who is a legend before thirty-five. What was it Newsweek had called him? "The T. E. Lawrence of the Cold War." The trouble was it wasn't something you could turn off. It had its shortcomings when you found time for some personal life. He reached the Chief's office, rapped with a knuckle and pushed his way through. The Chief and a male secretary, who was taking dictation, looked up. The secretary frowned, evidently taken aback by the cavalier entrance, but the Chief said, "Hello, Paul, come on in. Didn't expect you quite so soon." And to the secretary, "Dickens, that's all." When Dickens was gone the Chief scowled at his trouble-shooter. "Paul, you're bad for discipline around here. Can't you even knock before you enter? How is Nicaragua?" Paul Koslov slumped into a leather easy-chair and scowled. "I did knock. Most of it's in my report. Nicaragua is ... tranquil. It'll stay tranquil for a while, too. There isn't so much as a parlor pink—" "And Lopez—?" Paul said slowly, "Last time I saw Raul was in a swamp near Lake Managua. The very last time." The Chief said hurriedly, "Don't give me the details. I leave details up to you." "I know," Paul said flatly. His superior drew a pound can of Sir Walter Raleigh across the desk, selected a briar from a pipe rack and while he was packing in tobacco said, "Paul, do you know what day it is—and what year?" "It's Tuesday. And 1965." The bureau chief looked at his disk calendar. "Um-m-m. Today the Seven Year Plan is completed." Paul snorted. The Chief said mildly, "Successfully. For all practical purposes, the U.S.S.R. has surpassed us in gross national product." "That's not the way I understand it." "Then you make the mistake of believing our propaganda. That's always a mistake, believing your own propaganda. Worse than believing the other man's." "Our steel capacity is a third again as much as theirs." "Yes, and currently, what with our readjustment—remember when they used to call them recessions, or even earlier, depressions—our steel industry is operating at less than sixty per cent of capacity. The Soviets always operate at one hundred per cent of capacity. They don't have to worry about whether or not they can sell it. If they produce more steel than they immediately need, they use it to build another steel mill." The Chief shook his head. "As long ago as 1958 they began passing us, product by product. Grain, butter, and timber production, jet aircraft, space flight, and coal—" Paul leaned forward impatiently. "We put out more than three times as many cars, refrigerators, kitchen stoves, washing machines." His superior said, "That's the point. While we were putting the product of our steel mills into automobiles and automatic kitchen equipment, they did without these things and put their steel into more steel mills, more railroads, more factories. We leaned back and took it easy, sneered at their progress, talked a lot about our freedom and liberty to our allies and the neutrals and enjoyed our refrigerators and washing machines until they finally passed us." "You sound like a Tass broadcast from Moscow." "Um-m-m, I've been trying to," the Chief said. "However, that's still roughly the situation. The fact that you and I personally, and a couple of hundred million Americans, prefer our cars and such to more steel mills, and prefer our personal freedoms and liberties is beside the point. We should have done less laughing seven years ago and more thinking about today. As things stand, give them a few more years at this pace and every neutral nation in the world is going to fall into their laps." "That's putting it strong, isn't it?" "Strong?" the Chief growled disgustedly. "That's putting it mildly. Even some of our allies are beginning to waver. Eight years ago, India and China both set out to industrialize themselves. Today, China is the third industrial power of the world. Where's India, about twentieth? Ten years from now China will probably be first. I don't even allow myself to think where she'll be twenty-five years from now." "The Indians were a bunch of idealistic screwballs." "That's one of the favorite alibis, isn't it? Actually we, the West, let them down. They couldn't get underway. The Soviets backed China with everything they could toss in." Paul crossed his legs and leaned back. "It seems to me I've run into this discussion a few hundred times at cocktail parties." The Chief pulled out a drawer and brought forth a king-size box of kitchen matches. He struck one with a thumbnail and peered through tobacco smoke at Paul Koslov as he lit up. "The point is that the system the Russkies used when they started their first five-year plan back in 1928, and the system used in China, works. If we, with our traditions of freedom and liberty, like it or not, it works. Every citizen of the country is thrown into the grinding mill to increase production. Everybody," the Chief grinned sourly, "that is, except the party elite, who are running the whole thing. Everybody sacrifices for the sake of the progress of the whole country." "I know," Paul said. "Give me enough time and I'll find out what this lecture is all about." The Chief grunted at him. "The Commies are still in power. If they remain in power and continue to develop the way they're going, we'll be through, completely through, in another few years. We'll be so far behind we'll be the world's laughing-stock—and everybody else will be on the Soviet bandwagon." He seemed to switch subjects. "Ever hear of Somerset Maugham?" "Sure. I've read several of his novels." "I was thinking of Maugham the British Agent, rather than Maugham the novelist, but it's the same man." "British agent?" "Um-m-m. He was sent to Petrograd in 1917 to prevent the Bolshevik revolution. The Germans had sent Lenin and Zinoviev up from Switzerland, where they'd been in exile, by a sealed train in hopes of starting a revolution in Czarist Russia. The point I'm leading to is that in one of his books, 'The Summing Up,' I believe, Maugham mentions in passing that had he got to Petrograd possibly six weeks earlier he thinks he could have done his job successfully." Paul looked at him blankly. "What could he have done?" The Chief shrugged. "It was all out war. The British wanted to keep Russia in the allied ranks so as to divert as many German troops as possible from the Western front. The Germans wanted to eliminate the Russians. Maugham had carte blanche. Anything would have gone. Elements of the British fleet to fight the Bolsheviks, unlimited amounts of money for anything he saw fit from bribery to hiring assassins. What would have happened, for instance, if he could have had Lenin and Trotsky killed?" Paul said suddenly, "What has all this got to do with me?" "We're giving you the job this time." "Maugham's job?" Paul didn't get it. "No, the other one. I don't know who the German was who engineered sending Lenin up to Petrograd, but that's the equivalent of your job." He seemed to go off on another bent. "Did you read Djilas' 'The New Class' about a decade ago?" "Most of it, as I recall. One of Tito's top men who turned against the Commies and did quite a job of exposing the so-called classless society." "That's right. I've always been surprised that so few people bothered to wonder how Djilas was able to smuggle his book out of one of Tito's strongest prisons and get it to publishers in the West." "Never thought of it," Paul agreed. "How could he?" "Because," the Chief said, knocking the ash from his pipe and replacing it in the rack, "there was and is a very strong underground in all the Communist countries. Not only Yugoslavia, but the Soviet Union as well." Paul stirred impatiently. "Once again, what's all this got to do with me?" "They're the ones you're going to work with. The anti-Soviet underground. You've got unlimited leeway. Unlimited support to the extent we can get it to you. Unlimited funds for whatever you find you need them for. Your job is to help the underground start a new Russian Revolution." Paul Koslov, his face still bandaged following plastic surgery, spent a couple of hours in the Rube Goldberg department inspecting the latest gadgets of his trade. Derek Stevens said, "The Chief sent down a memo to introduce you to this new item. We call it a Tracy." Paul frowned at the wristwatch, fingered it a moment, held it to his ear. It ticked and the second hand moved. "Tracy?" he said. Stevens said, "After Dick Tracy. Remember, a few years ago? His wrist two-way radio." "But this is really a watch," Paul said. "Sure. Keeps fairly good time, too. However, that's camouflage. It's also a two-way radio. Tight beam from wherever you are to the Chief." Paul pursed his lips. "The transistor boys are really doing it up brown." He handed the watch back to Derek Stevens. "Show me how it works, Derek." They spent fifteen minutes on the communications device, then Derek Stevens said, "Here's another item the Chief thought you might want to see:" It was a compact, short-muzzled hand gun. Paul handled it with the ease of long practice. "The grip's clumsy. What's its advantage? I don't particularly like an automatic." Derek Stevens motioned with his head. "Come into the firing range, Koslov, and we'll give you a demonstration." Paul shot him a glance from the side of his eyes, then nodded. "Lead on." In the range, Stevens had a man-size silhouette put up. He stood to one side and said, "O.K., let her go." Paul stood easily, left hand in pants pocket, brought the gun up and tightened on the trigger. He frowned and pressed again. He scowled at Derek Stevens. "It's not loaded." Stevens grunted amusement. "Look at the target. First time you got it right over the heart." "I'll be ...," Paul began. He looked down at the weapon in surprise. "Noiseless and recoilless. What caliber is it, Derek, and what's the muzzle velocity?" "We call it the .38 Noiseless," Stevens said. "It has the punch of that .44 Magnum you're presently carrying." With a fluid motion Paul Koslov produced the .44 Magnum from the holster under his left shoulder and tossed it to one side. "That's the last time I tote that cannon," he said. He balanced the new gun in his hand in admiration. "Have the front sight taken off for me, Derek, and the fore part of the trigger guard. I need a quick draw gun." He added absently, "How did you know I carried a .44?" Stevens said, "You're rather famous, Koslov. The Colonel Lawrence of the Cold War. The journalists are kept from getting very much about you, but what they do learn they spread around." Paul Koslov said flatly, "Why don't you like me, Stevens? In this game I don't appreciate people on our team who don't like me. It's dangerous." Derek Stevens flushed. "I didn't say I didn't like you." "You didn't have to." "It's nothing personal," Stevens said. Paul Koslov looked at him. Stevens said, "I don't approve of Americans committing political assassinations." Paul Koslov grinned wolfishly and without humor. "You'll have a hard time proving that even our cloak and dagger department has ever authorized assassination, Stevens. By the way, I'm not an American." Derek Stevens was not the type of man whose jaw dropped, but he blinked. "Then what are you?" "A Russian," Paul snapped. "And look, Stevens, we're busy now, but when you've got some time to do a little thinking, consider the ethics of warfare." Stevens was flushed again at the tone. "Ethics of warfare?" "There aren't any," Paul Koslov snapped. "There hasn't been chivalry in war for a long time, and there probably never will be again. Neither side can afford it. And I'm talking about cold war as well as hot." He scowled at the other. "Or did you labor under the illusion that only the Commies had tough operators on their side?" Paul Koslov crossed the Atlantic in a supersonic TU-180 operated by Europa Airways. That in itself galled him. It was bad enough that the Commies had stolen a march on the West with the first jet liner to go into mass production, the TU-104 back in 1957. By the time the United States brought out its first really practical trans-Atlantic jets in 1959 the Russians had come up with the TU-114 which its designer, old Andrei Tupolev named the largest, most efficient and economical aircraft flying. In civil aircraft they had got ahead and stayed ahead. Subsidized beyond anything the West could or at least would manage, the air lines of the world couldn't afford to operate the slower, smaller and more expensive Western models. One by one, first the neutrals such as India, and then even members of the Western bloc began equipping their air lines with Russian craft. Paul grunted his disgust at the memory of the strong measures that had to be taken by the government to prevent even some of the American lines from buying Soviet craft at the unbelievably low prices they offered them. In London he presented a card on which he had added a numbered code in pencil. Handed it over a desk to the British intelligence major. "I believe I'm expected," Paul said. The major looked at him, then down at the card. "Just a moment, Mr. Smith. I'll see if his lordship is available. Won't you take a chair?" He left the room. Paul Koslov strolled over to the window and looked out on the moving lines of pedestrians below. He had first been in London some thirty years ago. So far as he could remember, there were no noticeable changes with the exception of automobile design. He wondered vaguely how long it took to make a noticeable change in the London street scene. The major re-entered the room with a new expression of respect on his face. "His lordship will see you immediately, Mr. Smith." "Thanks," Paul said. He entered the inner office. Lord Carrol was attired in civilian clothes which somehow failed to disguise a military quality in his appearance. He indicated a chair next to his desk. "We've been instructed to give you every assistance Mr. ... Smith. Frankly, I can't imagine of just what this could consist." Paul said, as he adjusted himself in the chair, "I'm going into the Soviet Union on an important assignment. I'll need as large a team at my disposal as we can manage. You have agents in Russia, of course?" He lifted his eyebrows. His lordship cleared his throat and his voice went even stiffer. "All major military nations have a certain number of espionage operatives in each other's countries. No matter how peaceful the times, this is standard procedure." "And these are hardly peaceful times," Paul said dryly. "I'll want a complete list of your Soviet based agents and the necessary information on how to contact them." Lord Carrol stared at him. Finally sputtered, "Man, why? You're not even a British national. This is—" Paul, held up a hand. "We're co-operating with the Russian underground. Co-operating isn't quite strong enough a word. We're going to push them into activity if we can." The British intelligence head looked down at the card before him. "Mr. Smith," he read. He looked up. "John Smith, I assume." Paul said, still dryly, "Is there any other?" Lord Carrol said, "See here, you're really Paul Koslov, aren't you?" Paul looked at him, said nothing. Lord Carrol said impatiently, "What you ask is impossible. Our operatives all have their own assignments, their own work. Why do you need them?" "This is the biggest job ever, overthrowing the Soviet State. We need as many men as we can get on our team. Possibly I won't have to use them but, if I do, I want them available." The Britisher rapped, "You keep mentioning our team but according to the dossier we carry on you, Mr. Koslov, you are neither British nor even a Yankee. And you ask me to turn over our complete Soviet machinery." Paul came to his feet and leaned over the desk, there was a paleness immediately beneath his ears and along his jaw line. "Listen," he said tightly, "if I'm not on this team, there just is no team. Just a pretense of one. When there's a real team there has to be a certain spirit. A team spirit. I don't care if you're playing cricket, football or international cold war. If there's one thing that's important to me, that I've based my whole life upon, it's this, understand? I've got team spirit. Perhaps no one else in the whole West has it, but I do." Inwardly, Lord Carrol was boiling. He snapped, "You're neither British nor American. In other words, you are a mercenary. How do we know that the Russians won't offer you double or triple what the Yankees pay for your services?" Paul sat down again and looked at his watch. "My time is limited," he said. "I have to leave for Paris this afternoon and be in Bonn tomorrow. I don't care what opinions you might have in regard to my mercenary motives, Lord Carrol. I've just come from Downing Street. I suggest you make a phone call there. At the request of Washington, your government has given me carte blanche in this matter." Paul flew into Moscow in an Aeroflot jet, landing at Vnukovo airport on the outskirts of the city. He entered as an American businessman, a camera importer who was also interested in doing a bit of tourist sightseeing. He was traveling deluxe category which entitled him to a Zil complete with chauffeur and an interpreter-guide when he had need of one. He was quartered in the Ukrayna, on Dorogomilovskaya Quai, a twenty-eight floor skyscraper with a thousand rooms. It was Paul's first visit to Moscow but he wasn't particularly thrown off. He kept up with developments and was aware of the fact that as early as the late 1950s, the Russians had begun to lick the problems of ample food, clothing and finally shelter. Even those products once considered sheer luxuries were now in abundant supply. If material things alone had been all that counted, the Soviet man in the street wasn't doing so badly. He spent the first several days getting the feel of the city and also making his preliminary business calls. He was interested in a new "automated" camera currently being touted by the Russians as the world's best. Fastest lens, foolproof operation, guaranteed for the life of the owner, and retailing for exactly twenty-five dollars. He was told, as expected, that the factory and distribution point was in Leningrad and given instructions and letters of introduction. On the fifth day he took the Red Arrow Express to Leningrad and established himself at the Astoria Hotel, 39 Hertzen Street. It was one of the many of the Intourist hotels going back to before the revolution. He spent the next day allowing his guide to show him the standard tourist sights. The Winter Palace, where the Bolshevik revolution was won when the mutinied cruiser Aurora steamed up the river and shelled it. The Hermitage Museum, rivaled only by the Vatican and Louvre. The Alexandrovskaya Column, the world's tallest monolithic stone monument. The modest personal palace of Peter the Great. The Peter and Paul Cathedral. The king-size Kirov Stadium. The Leningrad subway, as much a museum as a system of transportation. He saw it all, tourist fashion, and wondered inwardly what the Intourist guide would have thought had he known that this was Mr. John Smith's home town. The day following, he turned his business problem over to the guide. He wanted to meet, let's see now, oh yes, here it is, Leonid Shvernik, of the Mikoyan Camera works. Could it be arranged? Of course it could be arranged. The guide went into five minutes of oratory on the desire of the Soviet Union to trade with the West, and thus spread everlasting peace. An interview was arranged for Mr. Smith with Mr. Shvernik for that afternoon. Mr. Smith met Mr. Shvernik in the latter's office at two and they went through the usual amenities. Mr. Shvernik spoke excellent English so Mr. Smith was able to dismiss his interpreter-guide for the afternoon. When he was gone and they were alone Mr. Shvernik went into his sales talk. "I can assure you, sir, that not since the Japanese startled the world with their new cameras shortly after the Second War, has any such revolution in design and quality taken place. The Mikoyan is not only the best camera produced anywhere, but since our plant is fully automated, we can sell it for a fraction the cost of German, Japanese or American—" Paul Koslov came to his feet, walked quietly over to one of the pictures hanging on the wall, lifted it, pointed underneath and raised his eyebrows at the other. Leonid Shvernik leaned back in his chair, shocked. Paul remained there until at last the other shook his head.

DOGFIGHT—1973 By Mack Reynolds Flying at 1600 m.p.h. you act with split-second timing after you sight the enemy. And you're allowed only one mistake—your last! MY radar picked him up when he was about five hundred miles to my north-northeast and about forty-five miles above me. I switched the velocity calculator on him as fast as I could reach it. The enemy ship was doing sixteen, possibly even sixteen and a half. I took the chance that it was most likely an Ivar Interceptor, at that speed, and punched out a temporary evasion pattern with my right hand while with my left I snapped an Ivar K-12 card into my calculator along with his estimated speed, altitude and distance. It wasn't much to go on as yet but he couldn't have much more on me, if as much; inwardly I congratulated myself on the quick identification I'd managed. He was near enough now for my visor screen to pick him up. At least he was alone, that was something. My nearest squadron mate was a good minute and a half away. It might as well have been a century. Now, this is what is always hard to get over to a civilian; the time element. Understand, it will take me a while to tell this but it all took less than sixty seconds to happen. He had guessed my evasion pattern already—either guessed it or had some new calculator that was far and beyond anything our techs were turning out. I could tell he'd anticipated me by the Bong-Sonic roll he slipped into. I quickly punched up a new pattern based on the little material I had in the calculator. At least I'd caught the roll. I punched that up, hurriedly, slipped it into the IBM, guessed that his next probability was a pass, took a chance on that and punched it in. I was wrong there. He didn't take his opportunity for a front-on pass. He was either newly out of their academy or insultingly confident. My lips felt tight as I canceled the frontal pass card, punched up two more to take its place. The base supervisor cut in on the phone. "It looks like old Dmitri himself, Jerry, and he's flying one of the new K-12a models. Go get him, boy!" I felt like snapping back. He knew better than to break in on me at a time like this. I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Did he say K-12a? Did he say K-12a? I squinted at the visor screen. The high tail, the canopy, the oddly shaped wing tanks. I'd gone off on the identification! I slapped another evasion pattern into the controls, a standard set, I had no time to punch up an improvisation. But he was on me like a wasp. I rejected it, threw in another set. Reject. Another! Even as I worked, I kicked the release on my own calculator, dumped it all, selected like a flash an Ivar K-12a card, and what other estimations I could make while my mind was busy with the full-time job of evasion. My hands were still making the motions, my fingers were flicking here, there, my feet touching here, there. But my heart wasn't in it. He already had such an advantage that it was all I could do to keep him in my visor screen. He was to the left, to the right. I got him for a full quarter-second in the wires, but the auto gunner was too far behind, much too far. His own guns flicked red. I punched half a dozen buttons, slapped levers, tried to scoot for home. To the left of my cubicle two lights went yellowish and at the same time my visor screen went dead. I was blind. I sank back in my chair, helpless. THE speed indicator wavered, went slowly, deliberately to zero; the altimeter died; the fuel gauge. Finally, even the dozen or so trouble-indicators here, there, everywhere about the craft. Fifteen million dollars worth of warcraft was being shot into wreckage. I sat there for a long, long minute and took it. Then I got to my feet and wearily opened the door of my cubicle. Sergeant Walters and the rest of the maintenance crew were standing there. They could read in my face what had happened. The sergeant began, "Captain, I ..." I grunted at him. "Never mind, Sergeant. It had nothing to do with the ship's condition." I turned to head for the operations office. Bill Dickson strolled over from the direction of his own cubicle. "Somebody said you just had a scramble with old Dmitri himself." "I don't know," I said. "I don't know if it was him or not. Maybe some of you guys can tell a man's flying but I can't." He grinned at me. "Shot you down, eh?" I didn't answer. He said, "What happened?" "I thought it was an Ivar K-12, and I put that card in my calculator. Turned out it was one of those new models, K-12a. That was enough, of course." Bill grinned at me again. "That's two this week. That flak got you near that bridge and now you get ..." "Shut up," I told him. He counted up on his fingers elaborately. "The way I figure it, you lose one more ship and you're an enemy ace." He was irrepressible. "Damn it," I said, "will you cut it out! I've got enough to worry about without you working me over. This means I'll have to spend another half an hour in operations going over the fight. And that means I'll be late for dinner again. And you know Molly." Bill sobered. "Gee," he said, "I'm sorry. War is hell, isn't it?"

HOLES INCORPORATED By L. Major Reynolds THE red-headed secretary asked, "Names, please?" "Ted Baker." "Bill Stephens." "To see H. Joshua Blair. We have an appointment." "It's for three-thirty. We called up two weeks ago." The secretary said, "Oh, yes. I have you on the list." She checked them off, studied them vaguely, asked, "What was it you wanted to see Mr. Blair about?" Ted Baker held out the small steel box he was carrying. "About this." "Ah—what is it?" "It's a box." "I can see that," the redhead snapped. "What is it for? What does it do?" "It's for construction work. It makes holes." The girl sighed. It was late in the day and she didn't care much, really. She snapped an intercom button. An inquiring voice rasped at her. She said, "A Mr. Baker and a Mr. Stephens to see you." Evidently it was all right because she snapped off the button and pointed to a door. "In there." They went in the door and faced a desk large enough to play tennis on. The man behind the desk gave them a cordial snarl. "Well, what have you got on your mind? And don't take all day to tell me." Ted extended the box. "This. We'd like to sell it to you." "What is it? A bomb?" "No, sir. It makes holes. It makes holes real quick." Blair scowled at the box. "What the hell do I want of holes?" Bill Stephens came forward with further explanation. "You see, sir, Ted and I are inventors. We make, well—things. We've been working on this invention in our basement and it seems to be a success." "We don't quite know why it's a success," Ted said, "but it is." "We'd like to demonstrate it for you." "Well, go ahead and demonstrate." Ted raised the box and aimed it horizontally at nothing in particular. He pressed a black button. There was an odd whirring noise. He took his hand off the button and lowered the box. "What are you waiting for?" Blair growled. "Nothing. That's it. I've made the hole." "Are you two crazy? What kind of a fool trick—?" Ted reached down and took a pencil off the desk. "May I borrow this?" Without waiting for permission, he put the pencil carefully into the place he'd pointed the box. Half the pencil disappeared. He took his hand away. The part of the pencil still in sight didn't come with it. It stayed where it was, lying in thin air, horizontally, with no apparent support. H. Joshua Blair goggled and turned three shades whiter. "Wha-wha-what the hell!" "And now, if you'll try to move the pencil, the demonstration will be complete." LIKE a man in a trance, Blair got up from his desk and grasped the pencil. It wouldn't move. He got red in the face and threw all his weight on it. It would neither pull nor push. It stayed where it was. Finally Blair backed away from the thing. He leaned on his desk and panted. "You see," Ted said, "The hole goes into the fourth dimension. There's no other explanation. And the fourth dimension holds solider than concrete." Old Blair's head was spinning, but business instinct came quickly to his rescue. "What happens," he asked, "if something in the third dimension is in the way?" "It gets out of the way," Bill said. Ted demonstrated. He trained the box on the visible remains of the pencil. It vanished. Blair said, "Well, I'll be damned!" "We figure this will save you a lot of money in construction work," Bill said. "You can get along without riveters. You just have a man put holes in girders with this and push the rivets through. You also make holes for the beam-ends, and your entire building will be anchored in the fourth dimension." "Do it again," Blair said. Ted made another hole and put another pencil into it. Blair grasped the pencil and applied leverage. The pencil snapped at the point it entered the next dimension but the broken end of the far piece was not to be seen. Blair asked, "You say you two invented this gadget?" "That's right," Bill said. "We've got a workshop in my basement. We invent in the evenings after we come home from work." "What do you work at?" "I read gas meters. He's a clerk in a supermarket." "I suppose you want money for this thing." "We'd like to sell it, yes, sir." "How much do you want for it?" "Well, we don't know. What's it worth to you?" "Nothing probably. Leave it here a few days. I'll look it over and let you know." "But—" "And don't call me—I'll call you." "But—" "Leave your address and phone number with my secretary." After Ted and Bill left, Blair yelled, "Get me Jake Steadman in the engineering department!" He didn't bother using the intercom, but his secretary heard him anyhow. Ted and Bill went to work on an idea they had for the treatment of leather. You dipped your shoes in a solution and they lasted forever. The thing didn't work too well, however. It was full of bugs. They tried to eliminate the bugs and once in a while they thought of H. Joshua Blair. "Don't you think it's about time he called us?" Ted asked. "Don't be so impatient. He's a big man. He owns a big company. It takes time." "He's had over a month." "Relax. We'll hear from him." ANOTHER week passed, and another, until one evening Ted came galloping into the workshop with news. "That big new addition to the City Hall! They're working on it! H. Joshua Blair Construction Company. A big sign says so!" "Relax. You'll blow a tube." "Relax hell! He's using our invention to put up the steel girders. Just like we suggested to him. Guys with boxes like ours making holes and putting in rivets!" Bill stopped what he was doing. "He said he'd call us. Maybe he forgot. Maybe we better go see him." They both knocked off work the next day and got to Blair's office at nine o'clock. The red-headed secretary said, "You'll have to make an appointment." "Appointment hell!" Ted headed for the inner door. Bill followed him. They went into H. Joshua Blair's office to find him in conference with two vice-presidents. Ted said, "Mr. Blair, we came—" "Who in the devil are you?" "You remember us. Ted Baker and Bill Stephens. We came about our invention." "What invention?" "Our hole maker. You're using it on the City Hall addition." Blair glowered. "Where'd you get the idea it was yours? Have you got any patents to show?" "Well, no. We didn't—" "I did! Fourteen good solid patents. You two better go peddle your groceries." "Now look, Mr. Blair." Blair raised his voice. "Throw these two bums out!" Three huskies appeared as by magic to do Blair's bidding. As Ted and Bill landed on the sidewalk, one of the vice-presidents said, "Do you think that was smart, H. J.? They might cause trouble." Blair snorted. "They haven't got a prayer. A meter reader and a grocery clerk!" "We could have at least given them a few hundred." "Not on your life. Never give a sucker an even break, Jim. Give them anything at all, we acknowledge their claim. That'd be stupid." "Maybe you're right." "Of course I'm right. It's business. Now about those other bids. By gad! We can run every contractor in town out of competition! They can't touch our prices!" Out on the sidewalk, Bill and Ted sat mournfully looking up at the vast steel skeleton, held together literally by their own genius. Ted said, "We got a raw deal." "Maybe we had it coming. We were pretty stupid." "Anything we can do?" "Doesn't look like it." "Maybe the leather solution will turn out." "Maybe." Bill looked wistfully up at the steel skeleton. "At even a cent a hole, we'd have done all right." "Let's go home and get to work." In the Mighty and Benevolent Kingdom of Szkazia, a minor reign of terror existed. The King, tired of complaints from his subjects, had just finished dressing down his Prime Minister. The Prime Minister was passing the abuse on to his Chief Scientist. "If something isn't done soon, I won't be responsible for your head, my friend. The King is in a rage." The eyes of the Chief Scientist watered—partly from fear, and partly from nights and days spent in his laboratory beating out his brains on one idea after another. "I'm doing my best, sire—" "It's not good enough! These steel girders coming out of nowhere! Banging people in the head—whacking them in the stomach! Why it isn't safe to walk through the halls of the Administration Building. Even the bedrooms of the Executive Apartments are not safe! The other night the Director of Propaganda had just gone to bed—" "I know of the incident," the Chief Scientist said hurriedly. "Oh, you do? But you've done nothing about—" "I've been working hard," the scientist said patiently, "and I think I have the solution. Give me another day." "One day, then. After that—" The Prime Minister made a significant slicing motion with his finger. THE Prime Minister chewed his fingernails and watched the clock. Sleep was out of the question with the King calling up every little while yelling for action. The Minister counted the hours and presented himself at the Royal Laboratories precisely twenty-four hours later. "Time's up," he snapped. The Chief Scientist was wiping his face. There were new lines around his mouth. He indicated a small steel box. "I think I've got it," he said. "Come with me." They went swiftly to the Administration Building. "This should be close enough. We depress this lever and—and hope." "Well, do it—do it!" The Chief Scientist pushed the lever on the steel box. A whirring sound came from within. All the steel girder ends in sight—all the nasty little rivets—disappeared. The Chief Scientist smiled and wiped his face again. "It worked," he said. "Excellent. I'll see that you get a medal." "Thank you," the Chief Scientist said sadly. That was the trouble with people nowadays. They either handed you a medal or your head. TED and Bill stared sadly at the mess around the City Hall. Bill said, "It's a good thing it collapsed at night so nobody was killed, isn't it?" "You said it. I'd have felt guilty if there'd been any casualties." "What do you suppose went wrong?" "You got me. What do you think they'll do to old Blair?" "I don't know, but it looks pretty bad. They refused to let him out on bail." "Serves him right. The way he treated us." "You've got it wrong. He treated us swell. He did us a big favor. We could have been blamed for this." Bill thought it over before saying, "I guess you're right. I hadn't looked at it that way." "Let's go home and get to work on the leather solution." So they did.

diumenge, 24 de juliol de 2016

ANDERS lay on his bed, fully dressed except for his shoes and black bow tie, contemplating, with a certain uneasiness, the evening before him. In twenty minutes he would pick up Judy at her apartment, and that was the uneasy part of it. He had realized, only seconds ago, that he was in love with her. Well, he'd tell her. The evening would be memorable. He would propose, there would be kisses, and the seal of acceptance would, figuratively speaking, be stamped across his forehead. Not too pleasant an outlook, he decided. It really would be much more comfortable not to be in love. What had done it? A look, a touch, a thought? It didn't take much, he knew, and stretched his arms for a thorough yawn. "Help me!" a voice said. His muscles spasmed, cutting off the yawn in mid-moment. He sat upright on the bed, then grinned and lay back again. "You must help me!" the voice insisted. Anders sat up, reached for a polished shoe and fitted it on, giving his full attention to the tying of the laces. "Can you hear me?" the voice asked. "You can, can't you?" That did it. "Yes, I can hear you," Anders said, still in a high good humor. "Don't tell me you're my guilty subconscious, attacking me for a childhood trauma I never bothered to resolve. I suppose you want me to join a monastery." "I don't know what you're talking about," the voice said. "I'm no one's subconscious. I'm me. Will you help me?" Anders believed in voices as much as anyone; that is, he didn't believe in them at all, until he heard them. Swiftly he catalogued the possibilities. Schizophrenia was the best answer, of course, and one in which his colleagues would concur. But Anders had a lamentable confidence in his own sanity. In which case— "Who are you?" he asked. "I don't know," the voice answered. Anders realized that the voice was speaking within his own mind. Very suspicious. "You don't know who you are," Anders stated. "Very well. Where are you?" "I don't know that, either." The voice paused, and went on. "Look, I know how ridiculous this must sound. Believe me, I'm in some sort of limbo. I don't know how I got here or who I am, but I want desperately to get out. Will you help me?" STILL fighting the idea of a voice speaking within his head, Anders knew that his next decision was vital. He had to accept—or reject—his own sanity. He accepted it. "All right," Anders said, lacing the other shoe. "I'll grant that you're a person in trouble, and that you're in some sort of telepathic contact with me. Is there anything else you can tell me?" "I'm afraid not," the voice said, with infinite sadness. "You'll have to find out for yourself." "Can you contact anyone else?" "No." "Then how can you talk with me?" "I don't know." Anders walked to his bureau mirror and adjusted his black bow tie, whistling softly under his breath. Having just discovered that he was in love, he wasn't going to let a little thing like a voice in his mind disturb him. "I really don't see how I can be of any help," Anders said, brushing a bit of lint from his jacket. "You don't know where you are, and there don't seem to be any distinguishing landmarks. How am I to find you?" He turned and looked around the room to see if he had forgotten anything. "I'll know when you're close," the voice said. "You were warm just then." "Just then?" All he had done was look around the room. He did so again, turning his head slowly. Then it happened. The room, from one angle, looked different. It was suddenly a mixture of muddled colors, instead of the carefully blended pastel shades he had selected. The lines of wall, floor and ceiling were strangely off proportion, zigzag, unrelated. Then everything went back to normal. "You were very warm," the voice said. "It's a question of seeing things correctly." Anders resisted the urge to scratch his head, for fear of disarranging his carefully combed hair. What he had seen wasn't so strange. Everyone sees one or two things in his life that make him doubt his normality, doubt sanity, doubt his very existence. For a moment the orderly Universe is disarranged and the fabric of belief is ripped. But the moment passes. Anders remembered once, as a boy, awakening in his room in the middle of the night. How strange everything had looked. Chairs, table, all out of proportion, swollen in the dark. The ceiling pressing down, as in a dream. But that had also passed. "Well, old man," he said, "if I get warm again, let me know." "I will," the voice in his head whispered. "I'm sure you'll find me." "I'm glad you're so sure," Anders said gaily, switched off the lights and left. LOVELY and smiling, Judy greeted him at the door. Looking at her, Anders sensed her knowledge of the moment. Had she felt the change in him, or predicted it? Or was love making him grin like an idiot? "Would you like a before-party drink?" she asked. He nodded, and she led him across the room, to the improbable green-and-yellow couch. Sitting down, Anders decided he would tell her when she came back with the drink. No use in putting off the fatal moment. A lemming in love, he told himself. "You're getting warm again," the voice said. He had almost forgotten his invisible friend. Or fiend, as the case could well be. What would Judy say if she knew he was hearing voices? Little things like that, he reminded himself, often break up the best of romances. "Here," she said, handing him a drink. Still smiling, he noticed. The number two smile—to a prospective suitor, provocative and understanding. It had been preceded, in their relationship, by the number one nice-girl smile, the don't-misunderstand-me smile, to be worn on all occasions, until the correct words have been mumbled. "That's right," the voice said. "It's in how you look at things." Look at what? Anders glanced at Judy, annoyed at his thoughts. If he was going to play the lover, let him play it. Even through the astigmatic haze of love, he was able to appreciate her blue-gray eyes, her fine skin (if one overlooked a tiny blemish on the left temple), her lips, slightly reshaped by lipstick. "How did your classes go today?" she asked. Well, of course she'd ask that, Anders thought. Love is marking time. "All right," he said. "Teaching psychology to young apes—" "Oh, come now!" "Warmer," the voice said. What's the matter with me, Anders wondered. She really is a lovely girl. The gestalt that is Judy, a pattern of thoughts, expressions, movements, making up the girl I— I what? Love? Anders shifted his long body uncertainly on the couch. He didn't quite understand how this train of thought had begun. It annoyed him. The analytical young instructor was better off in the classroom. Couldn't science wait until 9:10 in the morning? "I was thinking about you today," Judy said, and Anders knew that she had sensed the change in his mood. "Do you see?" the voice asked him. "You're getting much better at it." "I don't see anything," Anders thought, but the voice was right. It was as though he had a clear line of inspection into Judy's mind. Her feelings were nakedly apparent to him, as meaningless as his room had been in that flash of undistorted thought. "I really was thinking about you," she repeated. "Now look," the voice said. ANDERS, watching the expressions on Judy's face, felt the strangeness descend on him. He was back in the nightmare perception of that moment in his room. This time it was as though he were watching a machine in a laboratory. The object of this operation was the evocation and preservation of a particular mood. The machine goes through a searching process, invoking trains of ideas to achieve the desired end. "Oh, were you?" he asked, amazed at his new perspective. "Yes ... I wondered what you were doing at noon," the reactive machine opposite him on the couch said, expanding its shapely chest slightly. "Good," the voice said, commending him for his perception. "Dreaming of you, of course," he said to the flesh-clad skeleton behind the total gestalt Judy. The flesh machine rearranged its limbs, widened its mouth to denote pleasure. The mechanism searched through a complex of fears, hopes, worries, through half-remembrances of analogous situations, analogous solutions. And this was what he loved. Anders saw too clearly and hated himself for seeing. Through his new nightmare perception, the absurdity of the entire room struck him. "Were you really?" the articulating skeleton asked him. "You're coming closer," the voice whispered. To what? The personality? There was no such thing. There was no true cohesion, no depth, nothing except a web of surface reactions, stretched across automatic visceral movements. He was coming closer to the truth. "Sure," he said sourly. The machine stirred, searching for a response. Anders felt a quick tremor of fear at the sheer alien quality of his viewpoint. His sense of formalism had been sloughed off, his agreed-upon reactions bypassed. What would be revealed next? He was seeing clearly, he realized, as perhaps no man had ever seen before. It was an oddly exhilarating thought. But could he still return to normality? "Can I get you a drink?" the reaction machine asked. At that moment Anders was as thoroughly out of love as a man could be. Viewing one's intended as a depersonalized, sexless piece of machinery is not especially conducive to love. But it is quite stimulating, intellectually. Anders didn't want normality. A curtain was being raised and he wanted to see behind it. What was it some Russian scientist—Ouspensky, wasn't it—had said? "Think in other categories." That was what he was doing, and would continue to do. "Good-by," he said suddenly. The machine watched him, open-mouthed, as he walked out the door. Delayed circuit reactions kept it silent until it heard the elevator door close. "YOU were very warm in there," the voice within his head whispered, once he was on the street. "But you still don't understand everything." "Tell me, then," Anders said, marveling a little at his equanimity. In an hour he had bridged the gap to a completely different viewpoint, yet it seemed perfectly natural. "I can't," the voice said. "You must find it yourself." "Well, let's see now," Anders began. He looked around at the masses of masonry, the convention of streets cutting through the architectural piles. "Human life," he said, "is a series of conventions. When you look at a girl, you're supposed to see—a pattern, not the underlying formlessness." "That's true," the voice agreed, but with a shade of doubt. "Basically, there is no form. Man produces gestalts, and cuts form out of the plethora of nothingness. It's like looking at a set of lines and saying that they represent a figure. We look at a mass of material, extract it from the background and say it's a man. But in truth there is no such thing. There are only the humanizing features that we—myopically—attach to it. Matter is conjoined, a matter of viewpoint." "You're not seeing it now," said the voice. "Damn it," Anders said. He was certain that he was on the track of something big, perhaps something ultimate. "Everyone's had the experience. At some time in his life, everyone looks at a familiar object and can't make any sense out of it. Momentarily, the gestalt fails, but the true moment of sight passes. The mind reverts to the superimposed pattern. Normalcy continues." The voice was silent. Anders walked on, through the gestalt city. "There's something else, isn't there?" Anders asked. "Yes." What could that be, he asked himself. Through clearing eyes, Anders looked at the formality he had called his world. He wondered momentarily if he would have come to this if the voice hadn't guided him. Yes, he decided after a few moments, it was inevitable. But who was the voice? And what had he left out? "Let's see what a party looks like now," he said to the voice. THE party was a masquerade; the guests were all wearing their faces. To Anders, their motives, individually and collectively, were painfully apparent. Then his vision began to clear further. He saw that the people weren't truly individual. They were discontinuous lumps of flesh sharing a common vocabulary, yet not even truly discontinuous. The lumps of flesh were a part of the decoration of the room and almost indistinguishable from it. They were one with the lights, which lent their tiny vision. They were joined to the sounds they made, a few feeble tones out of the great possibility of sound. They blended into the walls. The kaleidoscopic view came so fast that Anders had trouble sorting his new impressions. He knew now that these people existed only as patterns, on the same basis as the sounds they made and the things they thought they saw. Gestalts, sifted out of the vast, unbearable real world. "Where's Judy?" a discontinuous lump of flesh asked him. This particular lump possessed enough nervous mannerisms to convince the other lumps of his reality. He wore a loud tie as further evidence. "She's sick," Anders said. The flesh quivered into an instant sympathy. Lines of formal mirth shifted to formal woe. "Hope it isn't anything serious," the vocal flesh remarked. "You're warmer," the voice said to Anders. Anders looked at the object in front of him. "She hasn't long to live," he stated. The flesh quivered. Stomach and intestines contracted in sympathetic fear. Eyes distended, mouth quivered. The loud tie remained the same. "My God! You don't mean it!" "What are you?" Anders asked quietly. "What do you mean?" the indignant flesh attached to the tie demanded. Serene within its reality, it gaped at Anders. Its mouth twitched, undeniable proof that it was real and sufficient. "You're drunk," it sneered. Anders laughed and left the party. "THERE is still something you don't know," the voice said. "But you were hot! I could feel you near me." "What are you?" Anders asked again. "I don't know," the voice admitted. "I am a person. I am I. I am trapped." "So are we all," Anders said. He walked on asphalt, surrounded by heaps of concrete, silicates, aluminum and iron alloys. Shapeless, meaningless heaps that made up the gestalt city. And then there were the imaginary lines of demarcation dividing city from city, the artificial boundaries of water and land. All ridiculous. "Give me a dime for some coffee, mister?" something asked, a thing indistinguishable from any other thing. "Old Bishop Berkeley would give a nonexistent dime to your nonexistent presence," Anders said gaily. "I'm really in a bad way," the voice whined, and Anders perceived that it was no more than a series of modulated vibrations. "Yes! Go on!" the voice commanded. "If you could spare me a quarter—" the vibrations said, with a deep pretense at meaning. No, what was there behind the senseless patterns? Flesh, mass. What was that? All made up of atoms. "I'm really hungry," the intricately arranged atoms muttered. All atoms. Conjoined. There were no true separations between atom and atom. Flesh was stone, stone was light. Anders looked at the masses of atoms that were pretending to solidity, meaning and reason. "Can't you help me?" a clump of atoms asked. But the clump was identical with all the other atoms. Once you ignored the superimposed patterns, you could see the atoms were random, scattered. "I don't believe in you," Anders said. The pile of atoms was gone. "Yes!" the voice cried. "Yes!" "I don't believe in any of it," Anders said. After all, what was an atom? "Go on!" the voice shouted. "You're hot! Go on!" What was an atom? An empty space surrounded by an empty space. Absurd! "Then it's all false!" Anders said. And he was alone under the stars. "That's right!" the voice within his head screamed. "Nothing!" But stars, Anders thought. How can one believe— The stars disappeared. Anders was in a gray nothingness, a void. There was nothing around him except shapeless gray. Where was the voice? Gone. Anders perceived the delusion behind the grayness, and then there was nothing at all. Complete nothingness, and himself within it. WHERE was he? What did it mean? Anders' mind tried to add it up. Impossible. That couldn't be true. Again the score was tabulated, but Anders' mind couldn't accept the total. In desperation, the overloaded mind erased the figures, eradicated the knowledge, erased itself. "Where am I?" In nothingness. Alone. Trapped. "Who am I?" A voice. The voice of Anders searched the nothingness, shouted, "Is there anyone here?" No answer.

But there was someone. All directions were the same, yet moving along one he could make contact ... with someone. The voice of Anders reached back to someone who could save him, perhaps.
"Save me," the voice said to Anders, lying fully dressed on his bed, except for his shoes and black bow tie.

dissabte, 23 de juliol de 2016

Провалената империя: Съветският съюз от Сталин до Горбачов THE SOVIET IMPACT IN THE WESTERN WORLD - PROF E. CARR A Failed Empire: The Soviet Union in the Cold War from Stalin to Gorbachev (New Cold War History) by Vladislav M. Zubok DRENAGEM DE RECURSOS IMENSOS E COMPETIÇÃO PELOS MESMOS EM 10 ANOS DE GUERRA FRIA

E. H. Carr was a liberal realist and later left-wing British

 historian, journalist and international relations theorist,

 and an opponent of empiricism within historiography.

Carr whistory from 1917 to 1929,



 for his writings on international relations,

 and for his book What Is History?,


as best known for his 14-volume history


 of the Soviet Union, in which he provided 


an account of Soviet RULE 

COMBAT In the Commons, Churchill defended his cutting back on the imprisonment of young offenders by drawing Members’ attention to the fact that ‘the evil only falls on the sons of the working classes. The sons of other classes commit many of the same offences. In their boisterous and exuberant spirits in their days at Oxford and Cambridge they commit offences—for which scores of the sons of the working class are committed to prison—without any injury being inflicted on them.’ There” This lengthy biography is a single-volume abridgment of a massive, eight-volume work that took a quarter-century to write. It covers Churchill's entire life, highlighting not only his exploits during the Second World War, but also his early belief in technology and how it would revolutionize warfare in the 20th century. Churchill learned how to fly a plane before the First World War, and was also involved in the development of both the tank and anti-aircraft defense, but he truly showed his unmatched mettle during his country's darkest moments: "His finest hour was the leadership of Britain when it was most isolated, most threatened, and most weak; when his own courage, determination, and belief in democracy became at one with the nation, there is very little anecdote and a lot of "the First Armored Expeditionary Division, commanded by the nephew of my old friend, Sir Reginald Pinkney, embarked for Norway on May 10, 1940..

Of course’, Churchill told Linlithgow,



 ‘my ideal is narrow and limited.



 I want to see the British Empire 


preserved for a few more generations 


in its strength and splendour,’ 


and he added, 


‘Only the most prodigious exertions



 of British genius will achieve this result.

divendres, 22 de juliol de 2016

She has taken ' Carbies ' ; call upon her at once ... let me know what you think . . . don't be misled by her high spirits . . ." He read it half aloud and half to himself. He seemed to expect my sympathy. " I used to come here so often, two or three times a day sometimes." "Was she ill?" The question was involuntary. Margaret Capel was nothing to me. " Part of the time. Most of the time." " Did you do her any good ? " Apparently he had no great sense or sensitive- ness of professional dignity. There was a strange light in his eyes, brilliant yet fitful, conjured up by the question. It was the first time he seemed to recognize my existence as a separate entity. He TWILIGHT 9 looked directly at me, instead of gazing about him reminiscently. " I don't know. I did my best. When she was in pain I stopped it ... sometimes. She did not always like the medicines I prescribed. And you? You are suffering from neuritis, your sister says. That may mean anything. Where is it ? " " In my legs." I did not mean him to attend me; I had come away to rid myself of doctors. And anyway I liked an older man in a professional capacity. But his eccentricity of manner or deportment, his want of interest in me and absorption in his former patient, his ill-cut clothes and unlikeness to his brother professionals, were a little variety, and I found myself answering his questions. " Have you tried Kasemol ? It is a Japanese cure very efficacious; or any other paint? " " I am no artist." He smiled. He had a good set of teeth, and his smile was pleasant. " You've got a nurse, or a maid ? " " A maid. I'm not ill enough for nurses." " Good. Did you know this was once a nursing- home? After she found that out she could never bear the place . . ." He was talking again about the former occupant of the house. My ailment had not held his atten- tion long. io TWILIGHT " She said she smelt ether and heard groaning in the night. I suppose it seems strange to you I should talk so much about her? But Carbies with- out Margaret Capel . . . You do mind ? " " No, I don't. I daresay I shall be glad to hear all about her one day, and the story. I see you have a story to tell. Of course I remember her now. She wrote a play or two, and some novels that had quite a little vogue at one time. But I'm tired to-night." " So short a journey ought not to tire you." He was observing me more closely. " You look over- driven, too fine-drawn. We must find out all about it. Not to-night of course. You must not look upon this as a professional visit at all, but I could not resist coming. You would understand, if you had known her. And then to see you sitting at her table, and in the same attitude . . ." He left off abruptly. So the regard I had flattered myself to be personal was merely reminiscent. " You don't write too, by any chance, do you ? That would be an extraordinary coincidence." He might as well have asked Melba if she sang. Blundering fool! I was better known than Margaret Capel had ever been. Not proud of my position because I have always known my limita- tions, but irritated nevertheless by his ignorance, and wishful now to get rid of him. " Oh, yes ! I write a little sometimes. Sorry my TWILIGHT ii position at the table annoys you. But I don't play the piano." He seemed a little surprised or hurt at my tone, as he well might, and rose to go. I rose, too, and held out my hand. After all I did not write under my own name, so how could he have known unless Ella had told him? When he shook hands with me he made no pretence of feel- ing my pulse, a trick of the trade which I particu-larly dislike. So I smiled at him. " I am a little irritable."

Irritability is characteristic of the complaint. 
And I have bored you horribly, I fear. But it was 
such an excitement coming up here again. May I 
come in the morning and overhaul you? My 
partner, Dr. Lansdowne, for whom your sister's 
letter was really intended, is away. Does that 
matter ? " 

" I shouldn't think so." 

" He is a very able man," he said seriously. 

" And are you not ? " By this time my legs were 
aching badly and I wanted to get rid of him. 

" In the morning, then." 

He seemed as if he would have spoken again, 
but thought better of it. He had certainly a per- 
sonality, but one that I was not sure I liked. He 
took an inconceivable time winding up or starting 
his machine, the buzz of it was in my ears long 
after he went off, blowing an unnecessary whistle, 
making my pain unbearable. 



12 TWILIGHT 

I dined in bed and treated myself to an extra 
dose of nepenthe on the excuse of the fatigue of my 
journey. The prescription had been given to me by 
one of those eminent London physicians of whom 
I hope one day to make a pen-and-ink drawing. It 
is an insidious drug with varying effects. That 
night I remember the pain was soon under weigh 
and the strange half-wakeful dreams began early. 
It was good to be out of pain even if one knew it to 
be only a temporary deliverance. The happiness of a 
recovered amiability soon became mine, after which 
conscience began to worry me because I had been 
ungrateful to my sister and had run away from her, 
and been rude to her doctor, that strange doctor. I 
smiled in my drowsiness when I thought of him and 
his beloved Margaret Capel, a strange devotee at a 
forgotten shrine, in his cutaway checked coat and 
the baggy trousers. But the boots might have come 
from Lobb. His hands were smooth, of the right 
texture. Evidently the romance of his life had been 
this Margaret Capel. 

So this place had been a nursing-home, and when 
she knew it she heard groans and smelt ether. Her 
books were like that : fanciful, frothy. She had 
never a straightforward story to tell. It was years 
since I had heard her name, and I had forgotten 
what little I knew, except that I had once been 
resentful of the fuss the critics had made over her. 
I believed she was dead, but could not be sure. 



TWILIGHT 13 

Then I thought of Death, and was glad it had no 
terrors for me. No one could go on living as I 
had been doing, never out of pain, without seeing 
Death as a release. 

A burning point of pain struck me again, and 
because I was drugged I found it unbearable. Be- 
fore it was too late and I became drowsier I roused 
myself for another dose. To pour out the medicine 
and put the glass down without spilling it was 
difficult, the table seemed uneven. Later my 
brain became confused, and my body comfort- 
able. 

It was then I saw Margaret Capel for the first 
time, not knowing who she was, but glad of her 
appearance, because it heralded sleep. Always 
before the drug assumed its fullest powers, I saw 
kaleidoscopic changes, unsubstantial shapes, things 
and people that were not there. Wonderful things 
sometimes. This was only a young woman in a 
grey silk dress, of old-fashioned cut, with puffed 
sleeves and wide skirts. She had a mass of fair 
hair, blonde cendre, and with a blue ribbon snooded 
through it. At first her face was nebulous, after- 
wards it appeared with a little more colour in it, 
and she had thin and tremulous pink lips. She 
looked plaintive, and when our eyes met she 
seemed a little startled at seeing me in her bed. 
The last thing I saw of her was a wavering smile, 
rather wonderful and alluring. I knew at once 



14 TWILIGHT 

that she was Margaret Capel. But she was quickly 
replaced by two Chinese vases and a conventional 
design in black and gold. I had been too liberal 
with that last dose of nepenthe, and the result was 
the deep sleep or unconsciousness I liked the least 
of its effects, a blank passing of time. 

The next morning, as usual after such a debauch, 
I was heavy and depressed, still drowsy but without 
any happiness or content. I had often wondered I 
could keep a maid, for latterly I was always either 
irritable or silent. Not mean, however. That has 
never been one of my faults, and may have been the 
explanation. Suzanne asked how I had slept and 
hoped I was better, perfunctorily, without waiting 
for an answer. She was a great fat heavy French- 
woman, totally without sympathetic quality. I told 
her not to pull up the blinds nor bring coffee until 
I rang. 

" I am quite well, but I don't want to be bothered. 
The servants must do the housekeeping. If Dr. 
Kennedy calls say I am too ill to see him." 

I often wish one could have dumb servants. But 
Suzanne was happily lethargic and not argumenta- 
tive. I heard afterwards that she gave my message 
verbatim to the doctor : " Madame was not well 
enough to see him," but softened it by a sugges- 
tion that I would perhaps be better tomorrow and 
perhaps he would come again. His noisy machine 
and unnecessary horn spoiled the morning

dijous, 21 de juliol de 2016

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: —Introibo ad altare Dei. Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely: —Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit! Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak. Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly. —Back to barracks! he said sternly. He added in a preacher's tone: —For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all. He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm. —Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you? He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips. —The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek! He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck. Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. —My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried: —Will he come? The jejune jesuit! Ceasing, he began to shave with care. —Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly. —Yes, my love? —How long is Haines going to stay in this tower? Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder. —God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade. He shaved warily over his chin. —He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase? —A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk? —I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off. Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily. —Scutter! he cried thickly. He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said: —Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor. Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said: —The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can't you? He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly. —God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look. Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. —Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said. He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's face. —The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't let me have anything to do with you. —Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily. —You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you.... He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips. —But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all! He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously. Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting. Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade. —Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks? —They fit well enough, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip. —The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch. You look damn well when you're dressed. —Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey. —He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers. He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin. Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes. —That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan, says you have g. p. i. He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General paralysis of the insane! He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk. —Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard! Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too



—Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.
—I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I paid my way.
Good man, good man.
—I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel that? I owe nothing. Can you?
Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five weeks' board. The lump I have is useless.
—For the moment, no, Stephen answered.
Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.
—I knew you couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must also be just.
—I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.
Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan fillibegs: Albert Edward, prince of Wales.
—You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine in '46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.
Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters' covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie down.
Stephen sketched a brief gesture.
—I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings' sons.
—Alas, Stephen said.
Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so.
     Lal the ral the ra
     The rocky road to Dublin.
A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!... Day!... Day!... Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.
—That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.
He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.
—Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of common sense. Just a moment.
He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.
Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings'Repulse, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylonprix de Paris, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds.
—Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question...
Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush. Even money Fair Rebel. Ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.
Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle.
Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.
—Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.
He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.
—I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter.
May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.
—I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.
Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Mürzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns.
—I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties, by... intrigues by... backstairs influence by...
He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.
—Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England is dying.
He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.
—Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.
     The harlot's cry from street to street
     Shall weave old England's windingsheet.
His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted.
—A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not?
—They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to this day.
On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.
—Who has not? Stephen said.
—What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.
He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me.
—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?
—The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.
Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:
—That is God.
Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!
—What? Mr Deasy asked.
—A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.
—I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end.
     For Ulster will fight
     And Ulster will be right.
Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.
—Well, sir, he began.
—I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong.
—A learner rather, Stephen said.
And here what will you learn more?
Mr Deasy shook his head.
—Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher.
Stephen rustled the sheets again.
—As regards these, he began.
—Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them published at once.
Telegraph. Irish Homestead.
—I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two editors slightly.
—That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the City Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?
—The Evening Telegraph...
—That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin.
—Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket. Thank you.
—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am.
—Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.
He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate: toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.
—Mr Dedalus!
Running after me. No more letters, I hope.
—Just one moment.
—Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.
Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.
—I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? No. And do you know why?
He frowned sternly on the bright air.
—Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.
—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.
A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air.
—She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That's why.
On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

dimecres, 20 de juliol de 2016

And we danced, on the brink of an unknown future, to an echo from a vanished past Your work is to survive. Neither his kind, nor his kind of thinking will survive long. They are the crown of creation, they are ambition fulfilled—they have nowhere more to go. But life is change, that is how it differs from the rocks, change is its very nature. Who, then, were the recent lords of creation, that they should expect to remain unchanged?” ― John Wyndham, The Chrysalids I don't think it had ever occurred to me that man's supremacy is not primarily due to his brain, as most of the books would have one think. It is due to the brain's capacity to make use of the information conveyed to it by a narrow band of visible light rays. His civilization, all that he had achieved or might achieve, hung upon his ability to perceive that range of vibrations from red to violet. Without that, he was lost.” ― John Wyndham, The Day of the Triffids When a day that you happen to know is Wednesday starts off by sounding like Sunday, there is something seriously wrong somewhere PIOR QUE DEPENDER DE ALGUÉM É NÃO TER NINGUÉM DE QUEM DEPENDER A word again ... When the minds have learnt to mingle, when no thought is wholly one's own, and each has taken too much of the other ever to be entirely himself alone; when one has reached the beginning of seeing with a single eye, loving with a single heart, enjoying with a single joy; when there can be moments of identity and nothing is separate save bodies that long for one another ... When there is that, where is the word? There is only the inadequacy of the word that exists.

“It must be, I thought, one of the race's


 most persistent and comforting


 hallucinations to trust that 


"it can't happen here" -- that one's own


 time and place is beyond cataclysm.

dilluns, 18 de juliol de 2016

Filipe II tinha um colar de oiro, tinha um colar de oiro com pedras rubis. Cingia a cintura com cinto de coiro, com fivela de oiro, olho-de-perdiz. Comia num prato de prata lavrada girafa trufada, rissóis de serpente. O copo era um gomo que em flor desabrocha, de cristal de rocha do mais transparente. Andava nas salas forradas de Arrás, com panos por cima, pela frente e por trás. Tapetes flamengos, combates de galos, alões e podengos, falcões e cavalos. Dormia na cama de prata maciça com dossel de lhama de franja roliça. Na mesa do canto vermelho damasco, e a tíbia de um santo guardada num frasco. Foi dono da Terra, foi senhor do Mundo, nada lhe faltava, Filipe Segundo. Tinha oiro e prata, pedras nunca vistas, safiras, topázios, rubis, ametistas. Tinha tudo, tudo, sem peso nem conta, bragas de veludo, peliças de lontra. Um homem tão grande tem tudo o que quer. O que ele não tinha era um fecho éclair. NAS MARÉS DE ECTOPLASMA / FLUI REFLUI PERENE E FORTE/ ESPREITA AS PEGADAS DA MORTE / PERSEGUE-AS COMO UM FANTASMA / CEGA E SURDA IMPENETRÁVEL / LATEJA NA TREVA URDIDA/ ESSA COISA INEVITÁVEL /QUE É A VIDA

PULSAÇÃO DA TREVA 
(ANTÓNIO GEDEÃO) 

Fundiu-se a roda do Sol
entre os cedros afilados.
Desfez-se em azuis rosados,
tinturas de tornesol.

Agora, solenemente, 
como um corpo que se enterra,
ao som de um sino plangente
desce a noite sobre a terra.

Campânula asfixiante.
Circula um terror nas veias.
Zumbem estrelas em colmeias
num céu alheio e distante.

Numa dormência de cova,
suspensa em leite de Lua,
toda a vida se renova
e a guerra continua.

Nas marés do protoplasma
flui, reflui, perene e forte.
Espreita as pegadas da morte,
persegue-a como um fantasma.

Cega e surda, impenetrável,

lateja, na treva urdida,


essa coisa inevitável


que é a vida.

geometria rumo incerto alegre e triste alegria sempre mais perto força fria mãe do dia regaço puro e coberto dom breve silhueta esguia catapulta no deserto - mágica É uma estrada no céu silenciosa um anão sem ninguém que o suspeite é um braço pregado a uma rosa um mamilo escorrendo leite São edénicos anjos expulsos sonhando quietude e distância são homens marcados nos pulsos é uma secreta elegância São velhos demónios ociosos fitando o céu bailando ao vento são gritos rápidos, nervosos que destroem todo o pensamento É o frio deserto marinho operando na escuridão é o corpo que geme sozinho é a veia que é coração São aranhas jovens, pernaltas arrastando embrulhos para o mar são altas colunas tão altas que o chão ameaça estalar São espadas voantes são vielas passeios de todos e nenhuns são grandes rectas paralelas são grandes silêncios comuns É uma edição reduzida das aras da história sagrada é a técnica mais proibida da mágica mais procurada É uma estrada no céu silenciosa por um domingo extenso e plácido é um anoitecer cor de rosa um ar inocente, ácido —————–

o moço pastor que ali vem cantar
a sombra que deu
aos montes que têm o rio a passar
outro azul no céu
vê perto seu canto que ouvido se esconde
e é o que ele sabe
mas longe na noite sem fim lhe responde
a mesma verdade
que é a estação fria como está nos ramos
e na lua-cheia
pequeno cordeiro que há anos e anos
ele pastoreia
Vai morto. Não sonha.
Não grita. Não soa.
Saiu-lhe a peçonha
pelo buraco da proa

O navio morto
que sobe a corrente
de que velho porto
era o adolescente?

Cingiam-lhe a boca
água e nevoeiro?
Tinha muita, pouca
falta de dinheiro?

Bom barco, subido
aos da mor igualha,
tens o ombro ferido
até à fornalha

E puxado a cabos
— este rei de oceanos!
por ginasticados
loiros namorados
a diesel e canos

Foi-lhe a estrela má.
— E se recomeça?
— Vamos daqui já
enterrá-lo depressa.

DAS RELIGIÕES DA SWASTIKA AOS RIMANCES DOS EXCESSOS LITERÁRIOS - LES MAGICIENS D'ANDROMEDE - HOMENS PEIXES DE ANDRÓMEDA CONSEGUEM MATERIALIZAR AS VIBRAÇÕES DAS ESTRELAS E RECRIAR OS HOMENS DO PASSADO TERRESTRE PORQUE O FAZEM A RESPOSTA É SIMPLES TÊM FALTA DE SEXO TERRA NO FUTURO CONGELADA E SOL MORIBUNDO POP 4612 HOMMES À GROSSES TÊTES IMAGENS BIOELÉCTRICAS E OUTRAS NEO TERMINOLOGIAS IMPERATOR TERRARUM NUM HÁ ACABARAM-SE OS IMPÉRIOS DITOS UNIVERSAIS SENHOR DAS TERRAS ILUMINADAS PELO SOL

AS FORMAS TÍPICAS DAS RELIGIÕES DA 


LUSITÂNIA INCLUEM SUAVASTICA 

TRIPLA DE 6 BRAÇOS E AS MAIS NORMAIS 

diumenge, 17 de juliol de 2016

At the edge of the highway was a large granite boulder with a bronze plate fastened to its slanting surface. Sutter got out of the car, approached it and read: This property has been preserved as a State Park to commemorate the first successful trial explosion of the Hydrogen Bomb which took place on this site and marked the beginning of an era. It seemed to Sutter as he stood there that the surrounding silence grew more intense. Then he passed through a wide gateway and began to stride across an evenly clipped lawn toward a grove of trees beyond. Halfway he paused and glanced absently at his watch. It was exactly twelve o'clock noon. And abruptly the scene before him slipped out of plumb. The sky and the lawn seemed to alter positions, to rotate madly as in a vortex. The whirling ceased and the next instant Sutter stood on the shore of a lonely sea with a tawny width of sand stretching out before him and the waves washing up almost at his feet. Then he saw the shells.... It was the beach of the alien shells! There they lay, scattered about the sand, hundreds, thousands of them, alien and delicate and lovely, exoskeletons the like of which he had never seen before. Their pastel colors blended with one another to form a horizontal rainbow extending into the measureless distance. And somehow, as Sutter walked among them, picking his way with care, the years of his life seemed to slip away and he was a small boy at the seashore again, entranced with his first shell discovery. He could even hear his mother's voice calling "Be careful, Martin! Don't go too far!" He walked on and on, slowly, uncertainly, until the beach and the sea began to waver like a heat mirage. And suddenly the shells and the water vanished and he was on the green grass again with the grove of trees just ahead. He turned, saw a white highway with his car parked on the shoulder. Dazedly, Sutter walked back to the car.... All next morning he ruminated over his strange experience. Toward noon the pieces of the puzzle began to fit slowly together in his mind. But the partial answer at which he arrived seemed too fantastic for belief. Could it be possible that when he had stopped at the roadside stand he had blundered, in some inexplicable way, into another dimension? Sutter had a layman's knowledge of Einsteinian physics, and he knew that experiments in Time were being made every day. Only last week he had read in the paper of an army officer who had reportedly Time-traveled some twenty-two minutes. And a year ago the Belgian scientist, Delgar, claimed to have entered a secondary world which he declared impinged on our own. Assuming all this to be true, then it could be that the Tanganyika television set was a product manufactured in Future Time by a company that, by Sutter's Time standards, didn't yet exist. The following day saw Sutter begin an experiment of which he was rather proud. Travail had said that he had tried to tune in the noon news broadcast yesterday on the TV and had turned the set on from twelve o'clock until five minutes after. At a nearby appliance store Sutter purchased a clock control which would turn his television set on and off at any chosen time. He set the control for two o'clock, then managed to lure Travail out of the house for the afternoon by giving him an invitation he'd received for a lecture on marine life at a local club. Next, he drove again to the H-bomb site and stood waiting in the grass-like park, watch in hand. At precisely two o'clock there came that queer staggering of earth and sky. The trees gave way to the stretch of sand; the waves, leaden-colored and cheerless, dotted with white caps rolled up on the lonely shore. As before Sutter felt that same exhilaration, that same reversal to the spirit of his youth. But despite his mental excitement he maintained an awareness of the situation and a remembrance of why he had come here. When he walked among the shells this time he carried a large basket with him and he picked up shells and dropped them into the basket, selecting those that were the most alien. In due time the basket was filled to overflowing and Sutter stood still, waiting. Once more the surrounding landscape underwent its change. After the whirling had ceased and the initial feeling of vertigo had passed Sutter carried the full basket back to the car and began the long drive home. As he drove he mused over what Travail would say when he saw these shells. Then on second thought, he decided not to show them to him. Travail was getting on his nerves. He had obviously lied about his interest in shells. On discussing the subject with him Sutter found he did not know the first thing about them. In fact, he regretted taking him in as a roommate.Behind him the Tanganyika TV swelled on, the screen presenting that same scene of the beach of shells. As it did so Sutter uttered a startled exclamation. Under the magnifying glass the chambers in the bisected shell suddenly became more than outgrowths of marine organism. They were rooms! Tessellated ceilings, microscopically mosaic inlaid floors, long sweeping staircases with graceful slender balustrades and tall almost Ionic columns.... Heart pounding, Sutter looked again. He saw that it was actually the light from the television set that was illuminating the interior of the shell, lighting it with a strange radiance that seemed to extend outward from the shell in a steadily widening cone. His hand touched this cone, and it possessed a curious solidity. He hadn't been mistaken. There were rooms in that shell! Narrow corridors with arched doorways opened off alcoves and galleries. One vaulted chamber had a kind of dais in the center of it. The entire inner structure was fashioned of pastel-tinted walls which caught the light of the TV and radiated it to every corner in a soft glow of effulgence. ON GOING The chair spun from between his feet and lurched heavily across the room where it fell hard upon the television set, shattering the glowing screen into a thousand fragments. Simultaneously, Sutter slid forward into the bisected shell as the cone of light vanished after him.... Mrs. Conworth, the landlady, reported the disappearance of her two roomers on August first, a week after she last saw them. First, however, to the disgust of the police, she cleaned their apartment, giving to the trash man all valueless and inconsequential articles, including a box of old sea shells which she found in the closet. It was a curious fact that neither Sutter nor Travail possessed relatives or friends to make inquiry as to their whereabouts and thus without incentive the official search died into nothing. Mrs. Conworth rather regretted the loss of her bachelor roomers and, as she said to her neighbor across the street, she kept one memento of them—a thing that looked like a shell but wasn't a shell. She thought it must be one of them optical illusion things. "When you look at it in a certain way," said Mrs. Conworth, "it seems as if there are two tiny men inside it, fighting to get out.

A magnetic lure swept over Sutter. He felt an overwhelming desire to step into that cone of light....
Whether the exoskeleton expanded to admit his entrance or whether his own figure magically dwindled he could not tell, but the next instant he found himself in a fairy palace with all about him a world of silence.
A long broad hallway stretched before him. At the far end a ramp angled upward to a higher level. Sutter walked forward slowly, aware in a vague way that he had entered another plane that was at once a microcosm and a macrocosm. On the second level the way ahead divided. After a moment's hesitation he chose the left-hand passage, passing through a keyhole-shaped archway into a broad amphitheater, empty of furnishings, with a kind of terrace or gallery at the far end. Emerging upon that gallery, Sutter saw that he had reached the outer limit of the shell. The edges of the wall before him were cut off, jagged and rough, where his saw had done its work.
He was looking out upon the normal world that was his living room.
He stiffened as the door to the room opened and Lucien Travail entered. He sat down before the center table and carefully, systematically began going through the contents of the table drawer. Startled, Sutter watched from his strange vantage point. Travail had not noticed that the television set was turned on, and the high-backed davenport apparently hid the cone of blue light from his view.
He took a sheet of paper from the drawer, began reading it. With a start Sutter recognized his letter from the Federal Arts Museum.
And as a wave of wrath swept over him, Sutter saw that the beach scene on the television set was slowly fading away. Fear and a realization of his strange position struck him. He turned and ran madly back across the amphitheater, down the ramp and along the long hallway to the point where he had entered the shell. Even as he approached it the cone of blue light dimmed, wavered and was replaced by a wall of partial blackness.
Sutter sent his hands clawing desperately at that wall as it flickered twice and momentarily became translucent again. He forced his body between folds of palpable darkness, slid into the vanishing blue cone. Instantly he found himself in his normal world, standing in the center of the sitting room. Travail looked up, startled.
"Hullo. Where did you come from?" he said finally.
Sutter said, "What are you doing in my drawer?"
"I was looking for my tobacco pouch," Travail replied easily. "I'm sure I left it here on the table last night. I thought the maid might have put it in the drawer."
In his bedroom Sutter wrapped each of the alien shells in a sheet of newspaper and restored them to the basket. He placed the basket on the top shelf of the closet, concealing it with a couple of old hats.
He didn't sleep well that night. His mind reviewed over and over his strange experience. Toward morning he fell into a deep sleep and dreamed a wild dream of walking down a broad highway, flanked on one side by an endless line of television sets and on the other by man-high hills of alien shells.
He had his breakfast at the little coffee shop around the corner. But halfway back to his apartment he suddenly thought of Travail alone in the house with his shells. He broke into a run and he was panting for breath when he reached his door.
The basket of shells was still on the shelf, but the newspaper wrappings were loosened, and the bisected shell was entirely free of covering. And he had not left them that way last evening.
Had atomic transmigration attempted to draw the shells back into the Time sphere to which they really belonged? Sutter was a logical man, and even as this thought came his mind rejected it. It must be Travail. He had taken a sample shell from the basket and even now perhaps was dickering with the officials of the Federal Arts Museum on a price.
Sutter picked up the bisected shell and went into the sitting room. He carefully placed the shell upon the table so that the light from the television set would fall directly upon it. Then he sat down to wait.
As he waited he mentally viewed the material prospects of his discovery.
If the Federal Arts Museum had offered five thousand credits for his old collection, they would surely double their price on these rarities. He saw himself the recipient of a fat check, his name and picture in the papers, television interviews, lecture assignments, world fame ...
And to think that Travail had the brazen nerve to believe he could cash in on his good fortune!
"Damned bearded coot!" Sutter mumbled to himself. "He must take me for an utter fool!"
Footsteps sounded and his bearded roommate entered the room. Was it fancy or did Sutter see in those grey eyes a gleam of mingled avarice and satisfaction?
"Have a cigar?" said Travail casually.
Sutter shook his head. "You know I don't smoke." He crossed the room, adjusted the controls of the television set and watched the familiar beach scene come into sharper focus. As the sound of the washing waves boomed from the speaker, the cone of bluish light took form before the bisected shell. Sutter moved the shell slightly so that it lay at directly right angles to the panel of the TV set. Travail, drawing on his cigar, watched him curiously.
"What are you doing?" he asked at length.
"Little experiment. Stand over here and I'll show you. Here, in front of this cone of light."
Travail took the place indicated. His face was emotionless as he looked beyond the light into the bisected shell.
"Now walk forward," commanded Sutter.
"I'll do nothing of the sort," said Travail, starting to back away. "What are you up to anyway?"
Sutter had no plan in mind beyond an overwhelming desire to put a bad fright into his roommate in payment for what he considered a monstrous act of duplicity. It would serve Travail right if, once he entered the secondary plane of the shell, he would be forced to stay there a while. A good scare would cause him to leave, maybe.
Sutter moved up behind the bearded man and gave him a violent shove forward. "In you go!" he cried hysterically.
Travail pitched head foremost. But, spinning, he clutched at Sutter's arm, gripping it with the desperation of a drowning man. Half inside, half outside the cone of blue light he seemed propelled into the depths of the bisected shell by an irresistible force. In vain did Sutter fight to release the hold upon his arm. His squirming legs fastened themselves about the legs of a heavy Windsor chair, kicked frantically

dissabte, 16 de juliol de 2016

Islam in a plural Asia The Muslim legal texts which enjoyed authority throughout the wider Islamic world make no mention of Hindus among the dhimmis ('protected peoples'), those non Muslims who were liable to pay the jtzya (a graduated poll tax); although an obscure reference in the Qur'an to a people called the 'Sabians' had enabled the early Arab conquerors to admit Zoroastrians to dhimml status. By the eighth /fourteenth century a good many Indo Muslim authors and one legal text composed within the sultanate, the Fatawayi Ftruzshahi, were prepared to refer to the sultan's Hindu subjects as dhimmis. Kufi's Chach nama (c. 6i3/i2i6fi), which purports to be a Persian translation of an earlier (lost) work in Arabic, speaks of the levying of the jizya on the conquered population of Sind at the time of the Muslim conquest in the early second/eighth century. This is quite anachronistic, and it has been suggested that this kind of statement was used to justify what had become standard practice in Sind by the time the Chach nama was written. 69 References to seventh/thirteenth century conditions in India seem to show the term jtzya (sometimes kharaj wa jizya) being used of the tribute rendered by Hindu potentates. The occasional allusion by Barani raises the slight possibility that the poll tax was levied on the Hindu populace within Muslim held towns in northern India. 70 But the earliest incontrovertible evidence for the imposi tion of the jizya as a discriminatory tax on individual non Muslims dates from the reign of the Tughluqid Firuz Shah; though it is difficult, even so, to see how the measure could have been enforced outside the principal urban centres. nineteenth and twentieth centuries. One with far reaching consequences still not wholly exhausted was the impact on the Islamic lands of the steppe tribal peoples of Central Asia, especially though not exclusively the Turks. A second was the maritime expansion of Islam along the trade routes of the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea, which had a quite different character from the conquests of the heroic age. Related to both phenomena was a third, broader one. Until the eleventh century, Islam had expanded and developed in interaction primarily with Christianity and its Greco Roman heritage, and with Judaism and Zoroastrianism. In the eastern lands thereafter, interactions became extensive with Asian spirituality, including what we today label Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism, Buddhism, Taoism and Shamanism, as well as with Asian political and cultural forms. Central Asia and the Turks The Islamic lands had had relations, friendly and otherwise, with Turks beyond the borders for much of the period covered by volume i of this history. The at least partly Judaised Khazar empire had for long been an effective barrier to the spread both of Islam as a religion and of Muslim political rule north of the Caucasus. As the Central Asian frontiers of the dar al islam were pushed forward into and beyond Transoxania, individual Turks were captured in batde or purchased as slaves. The c Abbasid caliphs most famously al Mu'tasim, though the process was under way before his reign came to value such slaves particularly for their martial qualities: a trained military force of Turks, newly converted to Islam and loyal to their caliphal master, looked an attractive, efficient and trustworthy alternative to reliance on the fractious Khurasani armies which had first brought the 'Abbasid dynasty to power. It is true that that loyalty did not last very long: not many years were to elapse before political power in Baghdad became a prize to be fought for between the Turkish generals, with the caliph becoming little more than a conveniently tame, if necessarily legitimising, figurehead. But Turkish slave soldiers (mamluks or ghulams) had come to stay. Even the Buyids, Persians from the Caspian provinces who ruled in western Iran and in Baghdad itself for a century from 945, had a substantial Turkish element in their army. The notable dynasty to the east which was for a time the Buyids' contemporary, the Persian Samanids of Bukhara, were famed for their efforts not only in encouraging the spreading of the faith of Islam further into Turk dominated Central Asia but also in trading extensively in Turkish slaves at the frontier markets.

Mahmud repaired irrigation systems 
and implemented a tax reform, probably the 
model for that of Yeh lii 
Ch'u ts'ai in China, with a poll tax on adult males called qubchur and a land 
tax called qalan. Other taxes were abolished, at 
least in theory. Mahmud had to 
contend with attempts by Chaghadai, whose 
territory adjoined Transoxania, 
to assert authority. In 636/1238^ the rebellion of Mahmud Tarabi in Bukhara 
brought a punitive assault, but Mahmud was able to prevent a massacre by an 
appeal to Ogedei. Perhaps to placate Chaghadai, Ogedei moved Mahmud to 
China and replaced him by his son Masud,        with no change in policy. 
Contemporary observers and numismatic            evidence suggest that by 1260 
Central Asia had nearly regained its earlier 
prosperity. 2  The situation was very different in Iran, where Chinggis Khan made no 
attempt to install systematic administration. 29 Some eastern cities had Mongol 
officials but most simply remained under earlier rulers: the atabegs of Fars in 
southern Iran, the Khwarazm Shah's son Ghiyath al Din in Rayy, and in 
Azerbaijan, the Saljuqid atabegs. Kirman was seized in 619. by Baraq 
Hajib, a former servitor of the Khwarazm Shahs, who gave allegiance to the 
Mongols and founded the Qutluq Khanid            dynasty. Most rulers offered submission to the   qaghan and many travelled to the central court.

dijous, 14 de juliol de 2016

Esta tremenda crise de papel que o conflito europeu desencadeou em todo o mundo, ligada a uma desmedida desvergonha em avolumar lucros fabu- losos pela certa e sem trabalhos — não digo quem — colocou a indústria editorai num pé atraz, à ma- neira do Senhor dos Passos, perante os fazedores de livros, a tal ponto que, só navegam neste mar pro- celoso de escolhos e recifes, os meninos bonitos das várias coteries nacionais, os endinheirados ou ainda um ou outro felizardo que chorou venturas e delí- cias no ventre auspicioso de sua ilustre madre. Nanja os que, desprotegidos ou orgulhosos vi- vem fora dos cenáculos e não estão sob o olhar protector dos deuses da empenhoca. Para esses a crise aumenta, avoluma-se, montanha de desculpas a desabar ironias na sua inflexibilidade dorsal. Este ligeiro escorço de bio-bibliografia nunca se escreveu para sair isoladamente. Fazia parte, com ALBINO FORJAZ DE SAMPAIO outros, do segundo volume dos Homens do meu tejnpo, cujo primeiro volume, já lavadinho e pronto, espera o fato domingueiro de uma editoração para assistir aos lausperennes das vitrines. Exigências, dificuldades, desculpas, levaram-me a esperar melhor monção e favónios ventos, me- tendo o volume no recanto pacato de uma gaveta. E porque este estudo sobre Forjaz de Sampaio fosse coisa de pouca monta em gastos de papel, um edi- tor benévolo e amigo pegou-lhe e eu não deixei o certo pelo duvidoso naquela esteira do velho afo- rismo de que mais vale um pássaro na mão que dois voando ... Neste país fazer livros é ainda córnea ocupação que não dá pataco limpo para as exigências do pe- tróleo. Faz livros, por sport e por luxo, quem tem dinheiro para os editar, ou quem possui situações grimpantes para se fazer valer. Que eu não tenho grande razão de queixa, va- mos lá com Deus. . . Da minha pena tenho vivido, trambulhão aqui, ponta de faca acolá, mas todos os meus livros me teem sido pagos em dinheiro de contado, sem cartas de empenho, nem favores de costa acima. E tenho encontrado editores honestos, gente limpa, homens de palavra. ALBINO FORJAZ DE SAMPAIO Só outro dia. . . Eu conto. Foi com o primeiro volume dos Homens do meu tempo agora na gaveta. Procurei um editor — não cito o nome, nem a terra do cavalheiro, por vergonha da espécie — e mostrei-lhe o original. O homem gostou. Achou bom. Achou mesmo óptimo. E em certa altura, julgando-me igual a muitos, sor- rateiramente, assim como quem se baba de gozo perante escândalo de acepipe, propôs a coisa: — Ahl mas o seu livro, e.xcelentel Creia: você até pede pouco pelo original. Lá por esse lado ! . . . E fazia um gesto de nababo não dando valor às Hbras. . . — Há a questão do papel... Mas isso reme- deia-se. Talvez... Compreende... Simplesmente, você, tem que cortar uma das críticas. . . a de Fu- lano. Bem vê, somos amigos pessoais... Muito amigos. — !? — Pouca coisa, não é verdade? E depois se você quisesse... Aí onde elogia Cicrano, com quem tenho as relações cortadas... se você quisesse... uma bordoadazita valente, convinha-me. — !I1 Escuso dizer-lhes o resto. O livro foi para o canto da gaveta, que isto de manejar uma penna é 10 ALBINO FORJAZ DE SAMPAIO ainda — para os que teem a espinha recta e a cons- ciência limpa — uma bela e sagrada manifestação de independência e de carácter 1 Meteu-me nojo, muito nojo, o Himalaia de po- dridão que tal proposta representava. E o livro não saiu e já agora não sairá por emquanto . . . à espera de um editor que mo pague sem olhar aos amigos a proteger, nem aos inimigos a anavalhar. Irral que esta falperra das letras tem ainda em Portugal encruzilhadas infamantes ! . . . E publica-se assim antecipadamente este escorço de crítica feito com aquela honestidade e aquela in- dependência que a porca da vida, hoje mais do que nunca, de todos nós exige. Para quê mentir, bajular, vergar a consciência de uma análise ou de uma idea, às conveniências de uma amizade, ou à moeda prostituída de uma compra, material ou moral? Que me importa a mim o conceito alheio, se eu peguei na pena, não para escrever ao sabor dos ou- tros, mas para obedecer à minha inteligência e se- guir, com rectidão e justiça, o caminho traçado pelo meu estudo ? A mim me basta e me consola o poder excla- mar no fim dos meus trabalhos — é honesta a minha obra. ALBINO FORJAZ DE SAMPAIO 11 Tudo O mais é manigância vil que não serve sequer para abrir os alicerces a uma barraca de feira onde tripudiem palhaços ! Há que fazer justiça aos outros, não pelo que êles são, mas pelo que êles valem. Para mim, à minha mesa de trabalho, não tenho amigos, nem conheço inimigos, precisamente como o médico, na mesa anatómica, ao procurar a causa da doença, não pergunta que fato trazia a vítima. É preciso ser recto, ser justo, e sobretudo ser honesto. Se me reconhecerem estas qualidades tenho o quantum satis de justiça que ambiciono. E agora, meus senhores, vai subir o pano BANCARROTA -CUNHA LEAL --- NO PRELO Em serriço da Cruz Vermelha O fim do Mundo no Ano 2000 PÁGINAS AVULSAS 6% COBRAM OS PADRES ÀS GENTES DO NORTE POR EMPRÉSTIMOS QUE PASSAM DE PAES PARA FILHOS SÓ PAGAM OS JUROS A DÍVIDA PERMANECE

DA DESVALORIZAÇÃO DA MOEDA

XX RÉIS DE 1880 NÃO COMPRAM O MESMO

QUE XX RÉIS EM 1888 LOGO OS 6% DE 

JUROS ECLESIÁSTICOS 

SÃO A GARANTIA DA MANUTENÇÃO 

DO CAPITAL INVESTIDO

NA REALIDADE O EMPRÉSTIMO NÃO SE 

PAGA EM 15 ANOS 

OU EM 17 

POIS A MOEDA INICIAL JÁ DESVALORIZOU 

dimecres, 13 de juliol de 2016

E DA SOPA DE LETRAS EMERGIRAM PALAVRAS The MAN who SAW the FUTURE By EDMOND HAMILTON JEAN DE MARSELAIT, Inquisitor Extraordinary of the King of France, raised his head from the parchments that littered the crude desk at which he sat. His glance shifted along the long stone-walled, torchlit room to the file of mail-clad soldiers who stood like steel statues by its door. A word from him and two of them sprang forward. "You may bring in the prisoner," he said. The two disappeared through the door, and in moments there came a clang of opening bolts and grating of heavy hinges from somewhere in the building. Then the clang of the returning soldiers, and they entered the room with another man between them whose hands were fettered. Illustrated by MOREY He was a straight figure, and was dressed in drab tunic and hose. His dark hair was long and straight, and his face held a dreaming strength, altogether different from the battered visages of the soldiers or the changeless mask of the Inquisitor. The latter regarded the prisoner for a moment, and then lifted one of the parchments from before him and read from it in a smooth, clear voice. "Henri Lothiere, apothecary's assistant of Paris," he read, "is charged in this year of our lord one thousand four hundred and forty-four with offending against God and the king by committing the crime of sorcery." The prisoner spoke for the first time, his voice low but steady. "I am no sorcerer, sire." Jean de Marselait read calmly on from the parchment. "It is stated by many witnesses that for long that part of Paris, called Nanley by some, has been troubled by works of the devil. Ever and anon great claps of thunder have been heard issuing from an open field there without visible cause. They were evidently caused by a sorcerer of power since even exorcists could not halt them. "It is attested by many that the accused, Henri Lothiere, did in spite of the known diabolical nature of the thing, spend much time at the field in question. It is also attested that the said Henri Lothiere did state that in his opinion the thunderclaps were not of diabolical origin, and that if they were studied, their cause might be discovered. "It being suspected from this that Henri Lothiere was himself the sorcerer causing the thunderclaps, he was watched and on the third day of June was seen to go in the early morning to the unholy spot with certain instruments. There he was observed going through strange and diabolical conjurations, when there came suddenly another thunderclap and the said Henri Lothiere did vanish entirely from view in that moment. This fact is attested beyond all doubt. "The news spreading, many hundreds watched around the field during that day. Upon that night before midnight, another thunderclap was heard and the said Henri Lothiere was seen by these hundreds to appear at the field's center as swiftly and as strangely as he had vanished. The fear-stricken hundreds around the field heard him tell them how, by diabolical power, he had gone for hundreds of years into the future, a thing surely possible only to the devil and his minions, and heard him tell other blasphemies before they seized him and brought him to the Inquisitor of the King, praying that he be burned and his work of sorcery thus halted. "Therefore, Henri Lothiere, since you were seen to vanish and to reappear as only the servants of the evil one might do, and were heard by many to utter the blasphemies mentioned, I must adjudge you a sorcerer with the penalty of death by fire. If anything there be that you can advance in palliation of your black offense, however, you may now do so before final sentence is passed upon you." Jean de Marselait laid down the parchment, and raised his eyes to the prisoner. The latter looked round him quickly for a moment, a half-glimpsed panic for an instant in his eyes, then seemed to steady. "Sire, I cannot change the sentence you will pass upon me," he said quietly, "yet do I wish well to relate once, what happened to me and what I saw. Is it permitted me to tell that from first to last?" The Inquisitor's head bent, and Henri Lothiere spoke, his voice gaining in strength and fervor as he continued. "SIRE, I, Henri Lothiere, am no sorcerer but a simple apothecary's assistant. It was always my nature, from earliest youth, to desire to delve into matters unknown to men; the secrets of the earth and sea and sky, the knowledge hidden from us. I knew well that this was wicked, that the Church teaches all we need to know and that heaven frowns when we pry into its mysteries, but so strong was my desire to know, that many times I concerned myself with matters forbidden. "I had sought to know the nature of the lightning, and the manner of flight of the birds, and the way in which fishes are able to live beneath the waters, and the mystery of the stars. So when these thunderclaps began to be heard in the part of Paris in which I lived, I did not fear them so much as my neighbors. I was eager to learn only what was causing them, for it seemed to me that their cause might be learned. "So I began to go to that field from which they issued, to study them. I waited in it and twice I heard the great thunderclaps myself. I thought they came from near the field's center, and I studied that place. But I could see nothing there that was causing them. I dug in the ground, I looked up for hours into the sky, but there was nothing. And still, at intervals, the thunderclaps sounded. "I still kept going to the field, though I knew that many of my neighbors whispered that I was engaged in sorcery. Upon that morning of the third day of June, it had occurred to me to take certain instruments, such as loadstones, to the field, to see whether anything might be learned with them. I went, a few superstitious ones following me at a distance. I reached the field's center, and started the examinations I had planned. Then came suddenly another thunderclap and with it I passed from the sight of those who had followed and were watching, vanished from view. "Sire, I cannot well describe what happened in that moment. I heard the thunderclap come as though from all the air around me, stunning my ears with its terrible burst of sound. And at the same moment that I heard it, I was buffeted as though by awful winds and seemed falling downward through terrific depths. Then through the hellish uproar, I felt myself bumping upon a hard surface, and the sounds quickly ceased from about me. "I had involuntarily closed my eyes at the great thunderclap, but now, slowly, I opened them. I looked around me, first in stupefaction, and then in growing amazement. For I was not in that familiar field at all, sire, that I had been in a moment before. I was in a room, lying upon its floor, and it was such a room as I had never seen before. "Its walls were smooth and white and gleaming. There were windows in the walls, and they were closed with sheets of glass so smooth and clear that one seemed looking through a clear opening rather than through glass. The floor was of stone, smooth and seamless as though carven from one great rock, yet seeming not, in some way, to be stone at all. There was a great circle of smooth metal inset in it, and it was on it that I was lying. "All around the room were many great things the like of which I had never seen. Some seemed of black metal, seemed contrivances or machines of some sort. Black cords of wire connected them to each other and from part of them came a humming sound that did not stop. Others had glass tubes fixed on the front of them, and there were square black plates on which were many shining little handles and buttons. "There was a sound of voices, and I turned to find that two men were bending over me. They were men like myself, yet they were at the same time like no men I had ever met! One was white-bearded and the other plump and bare of face. Neither of them wore cloak or tunic or hose. Instead they wore loose and straight-hanging garments of cloth. "They were both greatly excited, it seemed, and were talking to each other as they bent over me. I caught a word or two of their speech in a moment, and found it was French they were talking. But it was not the French I knew, being so strange and with so many new words as to be almost a different language. I could understand the drift, though, of what they were saying. "'We have succeeded!' the plump one was shouting excitedly. 'We've brought someone through at last!' "'They will never believe it,' the other replied. 'They'll say it was faked.' "'Nonsense!' cried the first. 'We can do it again, Rastin; we can show them before their own eyes!' "They bent toward me, seeing me staring at them. "'Where are you from?' shouted the plump-faced one. 'What time—what year—what century?' "'He doesn't understand, Thicourt,' muttered the white-bearded one. 'What year is this now, my friend?' he asked me. "I found voice to answer. 'Surely, sirs, whoever you be, you know that this is the year fourteen hundred and forty-four,' I said.

That set them off again into a babble of excited talk, of which I could make out only a word here and there. They lifted me up, seeing how sick and weak I felt, and seated me in a strange, but very comfortable chair. I felt dazed. The two were still talking excitedly, but finally the white-bearded one, Rastin, turned to me. He spoke to me, very slowly, so that I understood him clearly, and he asked me my name. I told him.
"'Henri Lothiere,' he repeated. 'Well, Henri, you must try to understand. You are not now in the year 1444. You are five hundred years in the future, or what would seem to you the future. This is the year 1944.'
"'And Rastin and I have jerked you out of your own time across five solid centuries,' said the other, grinning.
"I looked from one to the other. 'Messieurs,' I pleaded, and Rastin shook his head.
"'He does not believe,' he said to the other. Then to me, 'Where were you just before you found yourself here, Henri?' he asked.
"'In a field at the outskirts of Paris,' I said.
"'Well, look from that window and see if you still believe yourself in your 15th-century Paris.'

"I WENT to the window. I looked out. Mother of God, what a sight before my eyes! The familiar gray little houses, the open fields behind them, the saunterers in the dirt streets—all these were gone and it was a new and terrible city that lay about me! Its broad streets were of stone and great buildings of many levels rose on either side of them. Great numbers of people, dressed like the two beside me, moved in the streets and also strange vehicles or carriages, undrawn by horse or ox, that rushed to and fro at undreamed-of speed! I staggered back to the chair.
"'You believe now, Henri?' asked the whitebeard, Rastin, kindly enough, and I nodded weakly. My brain was whirling.
"He pointed to the circle of metal on the floor and the machines around the room. 'Those are what we used to jerk you from your own time to this one,' he said.
"'But how, sirs?' I asked. 'For the love of God, how is it that you can take me from one time to another? Have ye become gods or devils?'
"'Neither the one nor the other, Henri,' he answered. 'We are simply scientists, physicists—men who want to know as much as man can know and who spend our lives in seeking knowledge.'
"I felt my confidence returning. These were men such as I had dreamed might some day be. 'But what can you do with time?' I asked. 'Is not time a thing unalterable, unchanging?'
"Both shook their heads. 'No, Henri, it is not. But lately have our men of science found that out.'
"They went on to tell me of things that I could not understand. It seemed they were telling that their men of knowledge had found time to be a mere measurement, or dimension, just as length or breadth or thickness. They mentioned names with reverence that I had never heard—Einstein and De Sitter and Lorentz. I was in a maze at their words.
"They said that just as men use force to move or rotate matter from one point along the three known measurements to another, so might matter be rotated from one point in time, the fourth measurement, to another, if the right force were used. They said that their machines produced that force and applied it to the metal circle from five hundred years before to this time of theirs.
"They had tried it many times, they said, but nothing had been on the spot at that time and they had rotated nothing but the air above it from the one time to the other, and the reverse. I told them of the thunderclaps that had been heard at the spot in the field and that had made me curious. They said that they had been caused by the changing of the air above the spot from the one time to the other in their trials. I could not understand these things.
"They said then that I had happened to be on the spot when they had again turned on their force and so had been rotated out of my own time into theirs. They said that they had always hoped to get someone living from a distant time in that way, since such a man would be a proof to all the other men of knowledge of what they had been able to do.
"I could not comprehend, and they saw and told me not to fear. I was not fearful, but excited at the things that I saw around me. I asked of those things and Rastin and Thicourt laughed and explained some of them to me as best they could. Much they said that I did not understand but my eyes saw marvels in that room of which I had never dreamed.
"They showed me a thing like a small glass bottle with wires inside, and then told me to touch a button beneath it. I did so and the bottle shone with a brilliant light exceeding that of scores of candles. I shrank back, but they laughed, and when Rastin touched the button again, the light in the glass thing vanished. I saw that there were many of these things in the ceiling.
"They showed me also a rounded black object of metal with a wheel at the end. A belt ran around the wheel and around smaller wheels connected to many machines. They touched a lever on this object and a sound of humming came from it and the wheel turned very fast, turning all the machines with the belt. It turned faster than any man could ever have turned it, yet when they touched the lever again, its turning ceased. They said that it was the power of the lightning in the skies that they used to make the light and to turn that wheel!
"My brain reeled at the wonders that they showed. One took an instrument from the table that he held to his face, saying that he would summon the other scientists or men of knowledge to see their experiment that night. He spoke into the instrument as though to different men, and let me hear voices from it answering him! They said that the men who answered were leagues separated from him!
"I could not believe—and yet somehow I did believe! I was half-dazed with wonder and yet excited too. The white-bearded man, Rastin, saw that, and encouraged me. Then they brought a small box with an opening and placed a black disk on the box, and set it turning in some way. A woman's voice came from the opening of the box, singing. I shuddered when they told me that the woman was one who had died years before. Could the dead speak thus?

"HOW can I describe what I saw there? Another box or cabinet there was, with an opening also. I thought it was like that from which I had heard the dead woman singing, but they said it was different. They touched buttons on it and a voice came from it speaking in a tongue I knew not. They said that the man was speaking thousands of leagues from us, in a strange land across the uncrossed western ocean, yet he seemed speaking by my side!
"They saw how dazed I was by these things, and gave me wine. At that I took heart, for wine, at least, was as it had always been.
"'You will want to see Paris—the Paris of our time, Henri?' asked Rastin.
"'But it is different—terrible—' I said.
"'We'll take you,' Thicourt said, 'but first your clothes—'
"He got a long light coat that they had me put on, that covered my tunic and hose, and a hat of grotesque round shape that they put on my head. They led me then out of the building and into the street.
"I gazed astoundedly along that street. It had a raised walk at either side, on which many hundreds of people moved to and fro, all dressed in as strange a fashion. Many, like Rastin and Thicourt, seemed of gentle blood, yet, in spite of this, they did not wear a sword or even a dagger. There were no knights or squires, or priests or peasants. All seemed dressed much the same.
"Small lads ran to and fro selling what seemed sheets of very thin white parchment, many times folded and covered with lettering. Rastin said that these had written in them all things that had happened through all the world, even but hours before. I said that to write even one of these sheets would take a clerk many days, but they said that the writing was done in some way very quickly by machines.
"In the broad stone street between the two raised walks were rushing back and forth the strange vehicles I had seen from the window. There was no animal pulling or pushing any one of them, yet they never halted their swift rush, and carried many people at unthinkable speed. Sometimes those who walked stepped before the rushing vehicles, and then from them came terrible warning snarls or moans that made the walkers draw back.
"One of the vehicles stood at the walk's edge before us, and we entered it and sat side by side on a soft leather seat. Thicourt sat behind a wheel on a post, with levers beside him. He touched these and a humming sound came from somewhere in the vehicle and then it too began to rush forward. Faster and faster along the street it went, yet neither of them seemed afraid.
"Many thousands of these vehicles were moving swiftly through the streets about us. We passed on, between great buildings and along wider streets, my eyes and ears numbed by what I saw about me. Then the buildings grew smaller, after we had gone for miles through them, and we were passing through the city's outskirts. I could not believe, hardly, that it was Paris in which I was.
"We came to a great flat and open field outside the city and there Thicourt stopped and we got out of the vehicle. There were big buildings at the field's end, and I saw other vehicles rolling out of them across the field, ones different from any I had yet seen, with flat winglike projections on either side. They rolled out over the field very fast and then I cried out as I saw them rising from the ground into the air. Mother of God, they were flying! The men in them were flying!
"Rastin and Thicourt took me forward to the great buildings. They spoke to men there and one brought forward one of the winged cars. Rastin told me to get in, and though I was terribly afraid, there was too terrible a fascination that drew me in. Thicourt and Rastin entered after me, and we sat in seats with the other man. He had before him levers and buttons, while at the car's front was a great thing like a double-oar or paddle. A loud roaring came and that double-blade began to whirl so swiftly that I could not see it. Then the car rolled swiftly forward, bumping on the ground, and then ceased to bump. I looked down, then shuddered. The ground was already far beneath! I too, was flying in the air!
"We swept upward at terrible speed that increased steadily. The thunder of the car was terrific, and, as the man at the levers changed their position, we curved around and over downward and upward as though birds. Rastin tried to explain to me how the car flew, but it was all too wonderful, and I could not understand. I only knew that a wild thrilling excitement held me, and that it were worth life and death to fly thus, if but for once, as I had always dreamed that men might some day do.
"Higher and higher we went. The earth lay far beneath and I saw now that Paris was indeed a mighty city, its vast mass of buildings stretching away almost to the horizons below us. A mighty city of the future that it had been given my eyes to look on!
"There were other winged cars darting to and fro in the air about us, and they said that many of these were starting or finishing journeys of hundreds of leagues in the air. Then I cried out as I saw a great shape coming nearer us in the air. It was many rods in length, tapering to a point at both ends, a vast ship sailing in the air! There were great cabins on its lower part and in them we glimpsed people gazing out, coming and going inside, dancing even! They told me that vast ships of the air like this sailed to and fro for thousands of leagues with hundreds inside them.
"The huge vessel of the air passed us and then our winged car began to descend. It circled smoothly down to the field like a swooping bird, and, when we landed there, Rastin and Thicourt led me back to the ground-vehicle. It was late afternoon by then, the sun sinking westward, and darkness had descended by the time we rolled back into the great city.
"But in that city was not darkness! Lights were everywhere in it, flashing brilliant lights that shone from its mighty buildings and that blinked and burned and ran like water in great symbols upon the buildings above the streets. Their glare was like that of day! We stopped before a great building into which Rastin and Thicourt led me.
"It was vast inside and in it were many people in rows on rows of seats. I thought it a cathedral at first but saw soon that it was not. The wall at one end of it, toward which all in it were gazing, had on it pictures of people, great in size, and those pictures were moving as though themselves alive! And they were talking one to another, too, as though with living voices! I trembled. What magic!
"With Rastin and Thicourt in seats beside me, I watched the pictures enthralled. It was like looking through a great window into strange worlds. I saw the sea, seemingly tossing and roaring there before me, and then saw on it a ship, a vast ship of size incredible, without sails or oars, holding thousands of people. I seemed on that ship as I watched, seemed moving forward with it. They told me it was sailing over the western ocean that never men had crossed. I feared!
"Then another scene, land appearing from the ship. A great statue, upholding a torch, and we on the ship seemed passing beneath it. They said that the ship was approaching a city, the city of New York, but mists hid all before us. Then suddenly the mists before the ship cleared and there before me seemed the city.

"MOTHER of God, what a city! Climbing range on range of great mountain-like buildings that aspired up as though to scale heaven itself! Far beneath narrow streets pierced through them and in the picture we seemed to land from the ship, to go through those streets of the city. It was an incredible city of madness! The streets and ways were mere chasms between the sky-toppling buildings! People—people—people—millions on millions of them rushed through the endless streets. Countless ground-vehicles rushed to and fro also, and other different ones that roared above the streets and still others below them!
"Winged flying-cars and great airships were sailing to and fro over the titanic city, and in the waters around it great ships of the sea and smaller ships were coming as man never dreamed of surely, that reached out from the mighty city on all sides. And with the coming of darkness, the city blazed with living light!
"The pictures changed, showed other mighty cities, though none so terrible as that one. It showed great mechanisms that appalled me. Giant metal things that scooped in an instant from the earth as much as a man might dig in days. Vast things that poured molten metal from them like water. Others that lifted loads that hundreds of men and oxen could not have stirred.
"They showed men of knowledge like Rastin and Thicourt beside me. Some were healers, working miraculous cures in a way that I could not understand. Others were gazing through giant tubes at the stars, and the pictures showed what they saw, showed that all of the stars were great suns like our sun, and that our sun was greater than earth, that earth moved around it instead of the reverse! How could such things be, I wondered. Yet they said that it was so, that earth was round like an apple, and that with other earths like it, the planets, moved round the sun. I heard, but could scarce understand.
"At last Rastin and Thicourt led me out of that place of living pictures and to their ground-vehicle. We went again through the streets to their building, where first I had found myself. As we went I saw that none challenged my right to go, nor asked who was my lord. And Rastin said that none now had lords, but that all were lord, king and priest and noble, having no more power than any in the land. Each man was his own master! It was what I had hardly dared to hope for, in my own time, and this, I thought, was greatest of all the marvels they had shown me!
"We entered again their building but Rastin and Thicourt took me first to another room than the one in which I had found myself. They said that their men of knowledge were gathered there to hear of their feat, and to have it proved to them.
"'You would not be afraid to return to your own time, Henri?' asked Rastin, and I shook my head.
"'I want to return to it,' I told them. 'I want to tell my people there what I have seen—what the future is that they must strive for.'
"'But if they should not believe you?' Thicourt asked.
"'Still I must go—must tell them,' I said.
"Rastin grasped my hand. 'You are a man, Henri,' he said. Then, throwing aside the cloak and hat I had worn outside, they went with me down to the big white-walled room where first I had found myself.
"It was lit brightly now by many of the shining glass things on ceiling and walls, and in it were many men. They all stared strangely at me and at my clothes, and talked excitedly so fast that I could not understand. Rastin began to address them.
"He seemed explaining how he had brought me from my own time to his. He used many terms and words that I could not understand, incomprehensible references and phrases, and I could understand but little. I heard again the names of Einstein and De Sitter that I had heard before, repeated frequently by these men as they disputed with Rastin and Thicourt. They seemed disputing about me.
"One big man was saying, 'Impossible! I tell you, Rastin, you have faked this fellow!'
"Rastin smiled. 'You don't believe that Thicourt and I brought him here from his own time across five centuries?'
"A chorus of excited negatives answered him. He had me stand up and speak to them. They asked me many questions, part of which I could not understand. I told them of my life, and of the city of my own time, and of king and priest and noble, and of many simple things that they seemed quite ignorant of. Some appeared to believe me but others did not, and again their dispute broke out.
"'There is a way to settle the argument, gentlemen,' said Rastin finally.
"'How?' all cried.
"'Thicourt and I brought Henri across five centuries by rotating the time-dimensions at this spot,' he said. 'Suppose we reverse that rotation and send him back before your eyes—would that be proof?'
"They all said that it would. Rastin turned to me. 'Stand on the metal circle, Henri,' he said. I did so.
"All were watching very closely. Thicourt did something quickly with the levers and buttons of the mechanisms in the room. They began to hum, and blue light came from the glass tubes on some. All were quiet, watching me as I stood there on the circle of metal. I met Rastin's eyes and something in me made me call goodbye to him. He waved his hand and smiled. Thicourt pressed more buttons and the hum of the mechanisms grew louder. Then he reached toward another lever. All in the room were tense and I was tense.
"Then I saw Thicourt's arm move as he turned one of the many levers.
"A terrific clap of thunder seemed to break around me, and as I closed my eyes before its shock, I felt myself whirling around and falling at the same time as though into a maelstrom, just as I had done before. The awful falling sensation ceased in a moment and the sound subsided. I opened my eyes. I was on the ground at the center of the familiar field from which I had vanished hours before, upon the morning of that day. It was night now, though, for that day I had spent five hundred years in the future.
"There were many people gathered around the field, fearful, and they screamed and some fled when I appeared in the thunderclap. I went toward those who remained. My mind was full of things I had seen and I wanted to tell them of these things. I wanted to tell them how they must work ever toward that future time of wonder.
"But they did not listen. Before I had spoken minutes to them they cried out on me as a sorcerer and a blasphemer, and seized me and brought me here to the Inquisitor, to you, sire. And to you, sire, I have told the truth in all things. I know that in doing so I have set the seal of my own fate, and that only a sorcerer would ever tell such a tale, yet despite that I am glad. Glad that I have told one at least of this time of what I saw five centuries in the future. Glad that I saw! Glad that I saw the things that someday, sometime, must come to be—"

IT was a week later that they burned Henri Lothiere. Jean de Marselait, lifting his gaze from his endless parchment accusation and examens on that afternoon, looked out through the window at a thick curl of black smoke going up from the distant square.
"Strange, that one," he mused. "A sorcerer, of course, but such a one as I had never heard before. I wonder," he half-whispered, "was there any truth in that wild tale of his? The future—who can say—what men might do—?"
There was silence in the room as he brooded for a moment, and then he shook himself as one ridding himself of absurd speculations. "But tush—enough of these crazy fancies. They will have me for a sorcerer if I yield to these wild fancies and visions of the future."
And bending again with his pen to the parchment before him, he went gravely on with his work.