Any sugggestions for good stories?
Been rather busy and haven't got around to updating. Is there anything awesome I should read?

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Any sugggestions for good stories?
Been rather busy and haven't got around to updating. Is there anything awesome I should read?
12 stories, all of which are awesome.
Oh god I haven't posted in forever.
So here is some classic assimov:
Asimov, Isaac - The Machine That Won the War
The Machine That Won the War
Copyright (c) 1961 by Mercury Press, Inc.
The celebration had a long way to go and even in the silent depths of
Multivac's underground chambers, it hung in the air.
If nothing else, there was the mere fact of isolation and silence. For
the first time in a decade, technicians were not scurrying about the
vitals of the giant computer, the soft lights did not wink out their
erratic patterns, the flow of information in and out had halted.
It would not be halted long, of course, for the needs of peace would be
pressing. Yet now, for a day, perhaps for a week, even Multivac might
Lamar Swift took off the military cap he was wearing and looked down
the long and empty main corridor of the enormous computer. He sat down
rather wearily in one of the technician's swing-stools, and his
uniform, in which he had never been comfortable, took on a heavy and
wrinkled appearance.
He said, "I'll miss it all after a grisly fashion. It's hard to
remember when we weren't at war with Deneb, and it seems against nature
now to be at peace and to look at the stars without anxiety."
The two men with the Executive Director of the Solar Federation were
both younger than Swift. Neither was as gray. Neither looked quite as
tired.
John Henderson, thin-lipped and finding it hard to control the relief
he felt in the midst of triumph, said, "They're destroyed! They're
destroyed! It's what I keep saying to myself over and over and I still
can't believe it. We all talked so much, over so many years, about the
menace hanging over
Earth and all its worlds, over every human being, and all the time it
was true, every word of it. And now we're alive and it's the Denebians
who are shattered and destroyed. They'll be no menace now, ever again."
"Thanks to Multivac," said Swift, with a quiet glance at the
imperturbable Jablonsky, who through all the war had been Chief
Interpreter of science's oracle. "Right, Max?"
Jablonsky shrugged. Automatically, he reached for a cigarette and
decided against it. He alone, of all the thousands who had lived in the
tunnels within Multivac, had been allowed to smoke, but toward the end
he had made definite efforts to avoid making use of the privilege.
He said, "Well, that's what they say." His broad thumb moved in the
direction of his right shoulder, aiming upward.
"Jealous, Max?"
"Because they're shouting for Multivac? Because Multivac is the big
hero of mankind in this war?" Jablonsky's craggy face took on an air of
suitable contempt. "What's that to me? Let Multivac be the machine that
won the war, if it pleases them."
Henderson looked at the other two out of the corners of his eyes. In
this short interlude that the three had instinctively sought out in the
one peaceful corner of a metropolis gone mad; in this entr'acte between
the dangers of war and the difficulties of peace; when, for one moment,
they might all find surcease; he was conscious only of his weight of
guilt. Suddenly, it was as though that weight were too great to be borne
longer. It had to be thrown off, along with the war; now!
Henderson said, "Multivac had nothing to do with victory. It's just a
machine."
"A big one," said Swift.
"Then just a big machine. No better than the data fed it." For a
moment, he stopped, suddenly unnerved at what he was saying.
Jablonsky looked at him, his thick fingers once again fumbling for a
cigarette and once again drawing back. "You should know. You supplied
the data. Or is it just that you're taking the credit?"
'Wo," said Henderson, angrily. "There is no credit. What do you know of
the data Multivac had to use; predigested from a hundred subsidiary
computers here on Earth, on the Moon, on Mars, even on Titan. With
Titan always delayed and always that feeling that its figures would
introduce an unexpected bias."
"It would drive anyone mad," said Swift, with gentle sympathy.
Henderson shook his head. "It wasn't just that. I admit that eight
years ago when I replaced Lepont as Chief Programmer, I was nervous.
But there was an exhilaration about things in those days. The war was
still long-range; an adventure without real danger. We hadn't reached
the point where manned vessels had had to take over and where
interstellar warps could
swallow up a planet clean, if aimed correctly. But then, when the real
difficulties began-"
Angrily-he could finally permit anger-he said, "You know nothing about
it."
"Well," said Swift. "Tell us. The war is over. We've won."
"Yes." Henderson nodded his head. He had to remember that. Earth had
won so all had been for the best. "Well, the data became meaningless."
"Meaningless? You mean that literally?" said Jablonsky.
"Literally. What would you expect? The trouble with you two was that
you weren't out in the thick of it. You never left Multivac, Max, and
you, Mr. Director, never left the Mansion except on state visits where
you saw exactly what they wanted you to see."
"I was not as unaware of that," said Swift, "as you may have thought."
"Do you know," said Henderson, "to what extent data concerning our
production capacity, our resource potential, our trained manpowereverything of importance to the war effort, in fact-had become
unreliable and untrustworthy during the last half of the war? Group
leaders, both civilian and military, were intent on projecting their
own improved image, so to speak, so they obscured the bad and magnified
the good. Whatever the machines might do, the men who programmed them
and interpreted the results had their own skins to think of and
competitors to stab. There was no way of stopping that. I tried, and
failed."
"Of course," said Swift, in quiet consolation. "I can see that you
would."
This time Jablonsky decided to light his cigarette. "Yet I presume you
provided Multivac with data in your programming. You said nothing to us
about unreliability."
"How could I tell you? And if I did, how could you afford to believe
me?" demanded Henderson, savagely. "Our entire war effort was geared to
Multivac. It was the one great weapon on our side, for the Denebians
had nothing like it. What else kept up morale in the face of doom but
the assurance that Multivac would always predict and circumvent any
Denebian move, and would always direct and prevent the circumvention of
our moves? Great Space, after our Spy-warp was blasted out of hyperspace we lacked any reliable Denebian data to feed Multivac and we
didn't dare make that public."
"True enough," said Swift.
"Well, then," said Henderson, "if I told you the data was unreliable,
what could you have done but replace me and refuse to believe me? I
couldn't allow that."
"What did you do?" said Jablonsky.
."Since the war is won, I'D tell you what I did. I corrected the data."
"How?" asked Swift.
"Intuition, I presume. I juggled them till they looked right. At first,
I hardly dared, I changed a bit here and there to correct what were
obvious
impossibilities. When the sky didn't collapse about us, I got braver.
Toward the end, I scarcely cared. I just wrote out the necessary data
as it was needed. I even had the Multivac Annex prepare data for me
according to a private programming pattern I had devised for the
purpose."
"Random figures?" said Jablonsky.
"Not at all. I introduced a number of necessary biases."
fablonsky smiled, quite unexpectedly, his dark eyes sparkling behind
the crinkling of the lower lids. "Three times a report was brought me
about unauthorized uses of the Annex, and I let it go each time. If it
had mattered, I would have followed it up and spotted you, John, and
found out what you were doing. But, of course, nothing about Multivac
mattered in those days, so you got away with it."
"What do you mean, nothing mattered?" asked Henderson, suspiciously.
"Nothing did. I suppose if I had told you this at the time, it would
have spared you your agony, but then if you had told me what you were
doing, it would have spared me mine. What made you think Multivac was
in working order, whatever the data you supplied it?"
"Not in working order?" said Swift.
"Not really. Not reliably. After all, where were my technicians in the
last years of the war? I'll tell you, they were feeding computers on a
thousand different space devices. They were gone! I had to make do with
kids I couldn't trust and veterans who were out-of-date. Besides, do
you think I could trust the solid-state components coming out of
Cryogenics in the last years? Cryogenics wasn't any better placed as
far as personnel was concerned than I was. To me, it didn't matter
whether the data being supplied Multivac were reliable or not. The
results weren't reliable. That much I knew."
"What did you do?" asked Henderson.
"I did what you did, John. I introduced the bugger factor. I adjusted
matters in accordance with intuition-and that's how the machine won the
war."
Swift leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs out before him.
"Such revelations. It turns out then that the material handed me to
guide me in my decision-making capacity was a man-made interpretation
of man-made data. Isn't that right?"
"It looks so," said Jablonsky.
"Then I perceive I was correct in not placing too much reliance upon
it," said Swift.
"You didn't?" Jablonsky, despite what he had just said, managed to look
professionally insulted.
"I'm afraid I didn't. Multivac might seem to say, Strike here, not
there; do this, not that; wait, don't act. But I could never be certain
that what Multivac seemed to say, it really did say; or what it really
said, it really meant. I could never be certain." "But the final report was always plain enough, sir," said Jablonsky.
"To those who did not have to make the decision, perhaps. Not to me.
The horror of the responsibility of such decisions was unbearable and
not even Multivac was sufficient to remove the weight. But the point is
I was justified in doubting and there is tremendous relief in that."
Caught up in the conspiracy of mutual confession, Jablonsky put titles
aside, "What was it you did then, Lamar? After all, you did make
decisions. How?"
"Well, it's time to be getting back perhaps but-I'll tell you first.
Why not? I did make use of a computer, Max, but an older one than
Multivac, much older."
He groped in his own pocket for cigarettes, and brought out a package
along with a scattering of small change; old-fashioned coins dating to
the first years before the metal shortage had brought into being a
credit system tied to a computer-complex.
Swift smiled rather sheepishly. "I still need these to make money seem
substantial to me. An old man finds it hard to abandon the habits of
youth." He put a cigarette between his lips and dropped the coins one
by one back into his pocket.
He held the last coin between his fingers, staring absently at it.
"Multivac is not the first computer, friends, nor the best-known, nor
the one that can most efficiently lift the load of decision from the
shoulders of the executive. A machine did win the war, John; at least a
very simple computing device did; one that I used every time I had a
particularly hard decision to make."
With a faint smile of reminiscence, he flipped the coin he held. It
glinted in the air as it spun and came down in Swift's outstretched
palm. His hand closed over it and brought it down on the back of his
left hand. His right hand remained in place, hiding the coin.
"Heads or tails, gentlemen?" said Swift.
ASSIMOV!
YOUTH _by_ ISAAC ASIMOV Red and Slim found the two strange little animals the morning after they heard the thunder sounds. They knew that they could never show their new pets to their parents. [Illustration]
There was a spatter of pebbles against the window and the youngster stirred in his sleep. Another, and he was awake. He sat up stiffly in bed. Seconds passed while he interpreted his strange surroundings. He wasn't in his own home, of course. This was out in the country. It was colder than it should be and there was green at the window. "Slim!" The call was a hoarse, urgent whisper, and the youngster bounded to the open window. Slim wasn't his real name, but the new friend he had met the day before had needed only one look at his slight figure to say, "You're Slim." He added, "I'm Red." Red wasn't his real name, either, but its appropriateness was obvious. They were friends instantly with the quick unquestioning friendship of young ones not yet quite in adolescence, before even the first stains of adulthood began to make their appearance. Slim cried, "Hi, Red!" and waved cheerfully, still blinking the sleep out of himself. Red kept to his croaking whisper, "Quiet! You want to wake somebody?" Slim noticed all at once that the sun scarcely topped the low hills in the east, that the shadows were long and soft, and that the grass was wet. Slim said, more softly, "What's the matter?" Red only waved for him to come out. Slim dressed quickly, gladly confining his morning wash to the momentary sprinkle of a little lukewarm water. He let the air dry the exposed portions of his body as he ran out, while bare skin grew wet against the dewy grass. Red said, "You've got to be quiet. If Mom wakes up or Dad or your Dad or even any of the hands then it'll be 'Come on in or you'll catch your death of cold.'" He mimicked voice and tone faithfully, so that Slim laughed and thought that there had never been so funny a fellow as Red. Slim said, eagerly, "Do you come out here every day like this, Red? Real early? It's like the whole world is just yours, isn't it, Red? No one else around and all like that." He felt proud at being allowed entrance into this private world. Red stared at him sidelong. He said carelessly, "I've been up for hours. Didn't you hear it last night?" "Hear what?" "Thunder." "Was there a thunderstorm?" Slim never slept through a thunderstorm. "I guess not. But there was thunder. I heard it, and then I went to the window and it wasn't raining. It was all stars and the sky was just getting sort of almost gray. You know what I mean?" Slim had never seen it so, but he nodded. "So I just thought I'd go out," said Red. They walked along the grassy side of the concrete road that split the panorama right down the middle all the way down to where it vanished among the hills. It was so old that Red's father couldn't tell Red when it had been built. It didn't have a crack or a rough spot in it. Red said, "Can you keep a secret?" "Sure, Red. What kind of a secret?" "Just a secret. Maybe I'll tell you and maybe I won't. I don't know yet." Red broke a long, supple stem from a fern they passed, methodically stripped it of its leaflets and swung what was left whip-fashion. For a moment, he was on a wild charger, which reared and champed under his iron control. Then he got tired, tossed the whip aside and stowed the charger away in a corner of his imagination for future use. He said, "There'll be a circus around." Slim said, "That's no secret. I knew that. My Dad told me even before we came here--" "That's not the secret. Fine secret! Ever see a circus?" "Oh, sure. You bet." "Like it?" "Say, there isn't anything I like better." Red was watching out of the corner of his eyes again. "Ever think you would like to be with a circus? I mean, for good?" Slim considered, "I guess not. I think I'll be an astronomer like my Dad. I think he wants me to be." "Huh! Astronomer!" said Red. Slim felt the doors of the new, private world closing on him and astronomy became a thing of dead stars and black, empty space. He said, placatingly, "A circus _would_ be more fun." "You're just saying that." "No, I'm not. I mean it." Red grew argumentative. "Suppose you had a chance to join the circus right now. What would you do?" "I--I--" "See!" Red affected scornful laughter. Slim was stung. "I'd join up." "Go on." "Try me." Red whirled at him, strange and intense. "You meant that? You want to go in with me?" [Illustration] "What do you mean?" Slim stepped back a bit, surprised by the unexpected challenge. "I got something that can get us into the circus. Maybe someday we can even have a circus of our own. We could be the biggest circus-fellows in the world. That's if you want to go in with me. Otherwise--Well, I guess I can do it on my own. I just thought: Let's give good old Slim a chance." The world was strange and glamorous, and Slim said, "Sure thing, Red. I'm in! What is it, huh, Red? Tell me what it is." "Figure it out. What's the most important thing in circuses?" Slim thought desperately. He wanted to give the right answer. Finally, he said, "Acrobats?" "Holy Smokes! I wouldn't go five steps to look at acrobats." "I don't know then." "Animals, that's what! What's the best side-show? Where are the biggest crowds? Even in the main rings the best acts are animal acts." There was no doubt in Red's voice. "Do you think so?" "Everyone thinks so. You ask anyone. Anyway, I found animals this morning. Two of them." "And you've got them?" "Sure. That's the secret. Are you telling?" "Of course not." "Okay. I've got them in the barn. Do you want to see them?" They were almost at the barn; its huge open door black. Too black. They had been heading there all the time. Slim stopped in his tracks. He tried to make his words casual. "Are they big?" "Would I fool with them if they were big? They can't hurt you. They're only about so long. I've got them in a cage." They were in the barn now and Slim saw the large cage suspended from a hook in the roof. It was covered with stiff canvas. Red said, "We used to have some bird there or something. Anyway, they can't get away from there. Come on, let's go up to the loft." They clambered up the wooden stairs and Red hooked the cage toward them. Slim pointed and said, "There's sort of a hole in the canvas." Red frowned. "How'd that get there?" He lifted the canvas, looked in, and said, with relief, "They're still there." "The canvas appeared to be burned," worried Slim. "You want to look, or don't you?" Slim nodded slowly. He wasn't sure he wanted to, after all. They might be-- But the canvas had been jerked off and there they were. Two of them, the way Red said. They were small, and sort of disgusting-looking. The animals moved quickly as the canvas lifted and were on the side toward the youngsters. Red poked a cautious finger at them. "Watch out," said Slim, in agony. "They don't hurt you," said Red. "Ever see anything like them?" "No." "Can't you see how a circus would jump at a chance to have these?" "Maybe they're too small for a circus." Red looked annoyed. He let go the cage which swung back and forth pendulum-fashion. "You're just trying to back out, aren't you?" "No, I'm not. It's just--" "They're not too small, don't worry. Right now, I've only got one worry." "What's that?" "Well, I've got to keep them till the circus comes, don't I? I've got to figure out what to feed them meanwhile." The cage swung and the little trapped creatures clung to its bars, gesturing at the youngsters with queer, quick motions--almost as though they were intelligent. II The Astronomer entered the dining room with decorum. He felt very much the guest. He said, "Where are the youngsters? My son isn't in his room." The Industrialist smiled. "They've been out for hours. However, breakfast was forced into them among the women some time ago, so there is nothing to worry about. Youth, Doctor, youth!" "Youth!" The word seemed to depress the Astronomer. They ate breakfast in silence. The Industrialist said once, "You really think they'll come. The day looks so--_normal_." The Astronomer said, "They'll come." That was all. Afterward the Industrialist said, "You'll pardon me. I can't conceive your playing so elaborate a hoax. You really spoke to them?" "As I speak to you. At least, in a sense. They can project thoughts." "I gathered that must be so from your letter. How, I wonder." "I could not say. I asked them and, of course, they were vague. Or perhaps it was just that I could not understand. It involves a projector for the focussing of thought and, even more than that, conscious attention on the part of both projector and receptor. It was quite a while before I realized they were trying to think at me. Such thought-projectors may be part of the science they will give us." "Perhaps," said the Industrialist. "Yet think of the changes it would bring to society. A thought-projector!" "Why not? Change would be good for us." "I don't think so." "It is only in old age that change is unwelcome," said the Astronomer, "and races can be old as well as individuals." The Industrialist pointed out the window. "You see that road. It was built Beforethewars. I don't know exactly when. It is as good now as the day it was built. We couldn't possibly duplicate it now. The race was young when that was built, eh?" "Then? Yes! At least they weren't afraid of new things." "No. I wish they had been. Where is the society of Beforethewars? Destroyed, Doctor! What good were youth and new things? We are better off now. The world is peaceful and jogs along. The race goes nowhere but after all, there is nowhere to go. _They_ proved that. The men who built the road. I will speak with your visitors as I agreed, if they come. But I think I will only ask them to go." "The race is not going nowhere," said the Astronomer, earnestly. "It is going toward final destruction. My university has a smaller student body each year. Fewer books are written. Less work is done. An old man sleeps in the sun and his days are peaceful and unchanging, but each day finds him nearer death all the same." "Well, well," said the Industrialist. "No, don't dismiss it. Listen. Before I wrote you, I investigated your position in the planetary economy." "And you found me solvent?" interrupted the Industrialist, smiling. "Why, yes. Oh, I see, you are joking. And yet--perhaps the joke is not far off. You are less solvent than your father and he was less solvent than his father. Perhaps your son will no longer be solvent. It becomes too troublesome for the planet to support even the industries that still exist, though they are toothpicks to the oak trees of Beforethewars. We will be back to village economy and then to what? The caves?" "And the infusion of fresh technological knowledge will be the changing of all that?" "Not just the new knowledge. Rather the whole effect of change, of a broadening of horizons. Look, sir, I chose you to approach in this matter not only because you were rich and influential with government officials, but because you had an unusual reputation, for these days, of daring to break with tradition. Our people will resist change and you would know how to handle them, how to see to it that--that--" "That the youth of the race is revived?" "Yes." "With its atomic bombs?" "The atomic bombs," returned the Astronomer, "need not be the end of civilization. These visitors of mine had their atomic bomb, or whatever their equivalent was on their own worlds, and survived it, because they didn't give up. Don't you see? It wasn't the bomb that defeated us, but our own shell shock. This may be the last chance to reverse the process." [Illustration] "Tell me," said the Industrialist, "what do these friends from space want in return?" The Astronomer hesitated. He said, "I will be truthful with you. They come from a denser planet. Ours is richer in the lighter atoms." "They want magnesium? Aluminum?" "No, sir. Carbon and hydrogen. They want coal and oil." "Really?" The Astronomer said, quickly, "You are going to ask why creatures who have mastered space travel, and therefore atomic power, would want coal and oil. I can't answer that." The Industrialist smiled. "But I can. This is the best evidence yet of the truth of your story. Superficially, atomic power would seem to preclude the use of coal and oil. However, quite apart from the energy gained by their combustion they remain, and always will remain, the basic raw material for all organic chemistry. Plastics, dyes, pharmaceuticals, solvents. Industry could not exist without them, even in an atomic age. Still, if coal and oil are the low price for which they would sell us the troubles and tortures of racial youth, my answer is that the commodity would be dear if offered gratis." The Astronomer sighed and said, "There are the boys!" They were visible through the open window, standing together in the grassy field and lost in animated conversation. The Industrialist's son pointed imperiously and the Astronomer's son nodded and made off at a run toward the house. The Industrialist said, "There is the Youth you speak of. Our race has as much of it as it ever had." "Yes, but we age them quickly and pour them into the mold." Slim scuttled into the room, the door banging behind him. The Astronomer said, in mild disapproval, "What's this?" Slim looked up in surprise and came to a halt. "I beg your pardon. I didn't know anyone was here. I am sorry to have interrupted." His enunciation was almost painfully precise. The Industrialist said, "It's all right, youngster." But the Astronomer said, "Even if you had been entering an empty room, son, there would be no cause for slamming a door." "Nonsense," insisted the Industrialist. "The youngster has done no harm. You simply scold him for being young. You, with your views!" He said to Slim, "Come here, lad." Slim advanced slowly. "How do you like the country, eh?" "Very much, sir, thank you." "My son has been showing you about the place, has he?" "Yes, sir. Red--I mean--" "No, no. Call him Red. I call him that myself. Now tell me, what are you two up to, eh?" Slim looked away. "Why--just exploring, sir." The Industrialist turned to the Astronomer. "There you are, youthful curiosity and adventure-lust. The race has not yet lost it." Slim said, "Sir?" "Yes, lad." The youngster took a long time in getting on with it. He said, "Red sent me in for something good to eat, but I don't exactly know what he meant. I didn't like to say so." "Why, just ask cook. She'll have something good for young'uns to eat." "Oh, no, sir. I mean for animals." "For animals?" "Yes, sir. What do animals eat?" The Astronomer said, "I am afraid my son is city-bred." "Well," said the Industrialist, "there's no harm in that. What kind of an animal, lad?" "A small one, sir." "Then try grass or leaves, and if they don't want that, nuts or berries would probably do the trick." "Thank you, sir." Slim ran out again, closing the door gently behind him. The Astronomer said, "Do you suppose they've trapped an animal alive?" He was obviously perturbed. "That's common enough. There's no shooting on my estate and it's tame country, full of rodents and small creatures. Red is always coming home with pets of one sort or another. They rarely maintain his interest for long." He looked at the wall clock. "Your friends should have been here by now, shouldn't they?" III The swaying had come to a halt and it was dark. The Explorer was not comfortable in the alien air. It felt as thick as soup and he had to breathe shallowly. Even so-- He reached out in a sudden need for company. The Merchant was warm to the touch. His breathing was rough, he moved in an occasional spasm, and was obviously asleep. The Explorer hesitated and decided not to wake him. It would serve no real purpose. There would be no rescue, of course. That was the penalty paid for the high profits which unrestrained competition could lead to. The Merchant who opened a new planet could have a ten year monopoly of its trade, which he might hug to himself or, more likely, rent out to all comers at a stiff price. It followed that planets were searched for in secrecy and, preferably, away from the usual trade routes. In a case such as theirs, then, there was little or no chance that another ship would come within range of their subetherics except for the most improbable of coincidences. Even if they were in their ship, that is, rather than in this--this--_cage_. The Explorer grasped the thick bars. Even if they blasted those away, as they could, they would be stuck too high in open air for leaping. It was too bad. They had landed twice before in the scout-ship. They had established contact with the natives who were grotesquely huge, but mild and unaggressive. It was obvious that they had once owned a flourishing technology, but hadn't faced up to the consequences of such a technology. It would have been a wonderful market. And it was a tremendous world. The Merchant, especially, had been taken aback. He had known the figures that expressed the planet's diameter, but from a distance of two light-seconds, he had stood at the visi-plate and muttered, "Unbelievable!" "Oh, there are larger worlds," the Explorer said. It wouldn't do for an Explorer to be too easily impressed. "Inhabited?" "Well, no." "Why, you could drop your planet into that large ocean and drown it." The Explorer smiled. It was a gentle dig at his Arcturian homeland, which was smaller than most planets. He said, "Not quite." The Merchant followed along the line of his thoughts. "And the inhabitants are large in proportion to their world?" He sounded as though the news struck him less favorably now. "Nearly ten times our height." "Are you sure they are friendly?" "That is hard to say. Friendship between alien intelligences is an imponderable. They are not dangerous, I think. We've come across other groups that could not maintain equilibrium after the atomic war stage and you know the results. Introversion. Retreat. Gradual decadence and increasing gentleness." "Even if they are such monsters?" "The principle remains." It was about then that the Explorer felt the heavy throbbing of the engines. He frowned and said, "We are descending a bit too quickly." There had been some speculation on the dangers of landing some hours before. The planetary target was a huge one for an oxygen-water world. Though it lacked the size of the uninhabitable hydrogen-ammonia planets and its low density made its surface gravity fairly normal, its gravitational forces fell off but slowly with distance. In short, its gravitational potential was high and the ship's Calculator was a run-of-the-mill model not designed to plot landing trajectories at that potential range. That meant the Pilot would have to use manual controls. It would have been wiser to install a more high-powered model, but that would have meant a trip to some outpost of civilization; lost time; perhaps a lost secret. The Merchant demanded an immediate landing. The Merchant felt it necessary to defend his position now. He said angrily to the Explorer, "Don't you think the Pilot knows his job? He landed you safely twice before." Yes, thought the Explorer, in a scout-ship, not in this unmaneuverable freighter. Aloud, he said nothing. He kept his eye on the visi-plate. They were descending too quickly. There was no room for doubt. Much too quickly. The Merchant said, peevishly, "Why do you keep silence?" "Well, then, if you wish me to speak, I would suggest that you strap on your Floater and help me prepare the Ejector." The Pilot fought a noble fight. He was no beginner. The atmosphere, abnormally high and thick in the gravitational potential of this world whipped and burned about the ship, but to the very last it looked as though he might bring it under control despite that. He even maintained course, following the extrapolated line to the point on the northern continent toward which they were headed. Under other circumstances, with a shade more luck, the story would eventually have been told and retold as a heroic and masterly reversal of a lost situation. But within sight of victory, tired body and tired nerves clamped a control bar with a shade too much pressure. The ship, which had almost levelled off, dipped down again. There was no room to retrieve the final error. There was only a mile left to fall. The Pilot remained at his post to the actual landing, his only thought that of breaking the force of the crash, of maintaining the spaceworthiness of the vessel. He did not survive. With the ship bucking madly in a soupy atmosphere, few Ejectors could be mobilized and only one of them in time. When afterwards, the Explorer lifted out of unconsciousness and rose to his feet, he had the definite feeling that but for himself and the Merchant, there were no survivors. And perhaps that was an over-calculation. His Floater had burnt out while still sufficiently distant from surface to have the fall stun him. The Merchant might have had less luck, even, than that. He was surrounded by a world of thick, ropy stalks of grass, and in the distance were trees that reminded him vaguely of similar structures on his native Arcturian world except that their lowest branches were high above what he would consider normal tree-tops. He called, his voice sounding basso in the thick air and the Merchant answered. The Explorer made his way toward him, thrusting violently at the coarse stalks that barred his path. "Are you hurt?" he asked. The Merchant grimaced. "I've sprained something. It hurts to walk." The Explorer probed gently. "I don't think anything is broken. You'll have to walk despite the pain." "Can't we rest first?" "It's important to try to find the ship. If it is spaceworthy or if it can be repaired, we may live. Otherwise, we won't." "Just a few minutes. Let me catch my breath." The Explorer was glad enough for those few minutes. The Merchant's eyes were already closed. He allowed his to do the same. He heard the trampling and his eyes snapped open. Never sleep on a strange planet, he told himself futilely. The Merchant was awake too and his steady screaming was a rumble of terror. The Explorer called, "It's only a native of this planet. It won't harm you." But even as he spoke, the giant had swooped down and in a moment they were in its grasp being lifted closer to its monstrous ugliness. The Merchant struggled violently and, of course, quite futilely. "Can't you talk to it?" he yelled. The Explorer could only shake his head. "I can't reach it with the Projector. It won't be listening." "Then blast it. Blast it down." "We can't do that." The phrase "you fool" had almost been added. The Explorer struggled to keep his self-control. They were swallowing space as the monster moved purposefully away. "Why not?" cried the Merchant. "You can reach your blaster. I see it in plain sight. Don't be afraid of falling." "It's simpler than that. If this monster is killed, you'll never trade with this planet. You'll never even leave it. You probably won't live the day out." "Why? Why?" "Because this is one of the young of the species. You should know what happens when a trader kills a native young, even accidentally. What's more, if this is the target-point, then we are on the estate of a powerful native. This might be one of his brood." That was how they entered their present prison. They had carefully burnt away a portion of the thick, stiff covering and it was obvious that the height from which they were suspended was a killing one. Now, once again, the prison-cage shuddered and lifted in an upward arc. The Merchant rolled to the lower rim and startled awake. The cover lifted and light flooded in. As was the case the time before, there were two specimens of the young. They were not very different in appearance from adults of the species, reflected the Explorer, though, of course, they were considerably smaller. A handful of reedy green stalks was stuffed between the bars. Its odor was not unpleasant but it carried clods of soil at its ends. The Merchant drew away and said, huskily, "What are they doing?" The Explorer said, "Trying to feed us, I should judge. At least this seems to be the native equivalent of grass." The cover was replaced and they were set swinging again, alone with their fodder. IV Slim started at the sound of footsteps and brightened when it turned out to be only Red. He said, "No one's around. I had my eye peeled, you bet." Red said, "Ssh. Look. You take this stuff and stick it in the cage. I've got to scoot back to the house." "What is it?" Slim reached reluctantly. "Ground meat. Holy Smokes, haven't you ever seen ground meat? That's what you should've got when I sent you to the house instead of coming back with that stupid grass." Slim was hurt. "How'd I know they don't eat grass. Besides, ground meat doesn't come loose like that. It comes in cellophane and it isn't that color." "Sure--in the city. Out here we grind our own and it's always this color till it's cooked." "You mean it isn't cooked?" Slim drew away quickly. Red looked disgusted. "Do you think animals eat _cooked_ food. Come on, take it. It won't hurt you. I tell you there isn't much time." "Why? What's doing back at the house?" "I don't know. Dad and your father are walking around. I think maybe they're looking for me. Maybe the cook told them I took the meat. Anyway, we don't want them coming here after me." "Didn't you ask the cook before you took this stuff?" "Who? That crab? Shouldn't wonder if she only let me have a drink of water because Dad makes her. Come on. Take it." Slim took the large glob of meat though his skin crawled at the touch. He turned toward the barn and Red sped away in the direction from which he had come. He slowed when he approached the two adults, took a few deep breaths to bring himself back to normal, and then carefully and nonchalantly sauntered past. (They were walking in the general direction of the barn, he noticed, but not dead on.) He said, "Hi, Dad. Hello, sir." The Industrialist said, "Just a moment, Red. I have a question to ask you?" Red turned a carefully blank face to his father. "Yes, Dad?" "Mother tells me you were out early this morning." "Not real early, Dad. Just a little before breakfast." "She said you told her it was because you had been awakened during the night and didn't go back to sleep." Red waited before answering. Should he have told Mom that? Then he said, "Yes, sir." "What was it that awakened you?" Red saw no harm in it. He said, "I don't know, Dad. It sounded like thunder, sort of, and like a collision, sort of." "Could you tell where it came from?" "It _sounded_ like it was out by the hill." That was truthful, and useful as well, since the direction was almost opposite that in which the barn lay. The Industrialist looked at his guest. "I suppose it would do no harm to walk toward the hill." The Astronomer said, "I am ready." Red watched them walk away and when he turned he saw Slim peering cautiously out from among the briars of a hedge. Red waved at him. "Come on." Slim stepped out and approached. "Did they say anything about the meat?" "No. I guess they don't know about that. They went down to the hill." "What for?" "Search me. They kept asking about the noise I heard. Listen, did the animals eat the meat?" "Well," said Slim, cautiously, "they were sort of _looking_ at it and smelling it or something." "Okay," Red said, "I guess they'll eat it. Holy Smokes, they've got to eat _something_. Let's walk along toward the hill and see what Dad and your father are going to do." "What about the animals?" "They'll be all right. A fellow can't spend all his time on them. Did you give them water?" "Sure. They drank that." "See. Come on. We'll look at them after lunch. I tell you what. We'll bring them fruit. Anything'll eat fruit." Together they trotted up the rise, Red, as usual, in the lead. V The Astronomer said, "You think the noise was their ship landing?" "Don't you think it could be?" "If it were, they may all be dead." "Perhaps not." The Industrialist frowned. "If they have landed, and are still alive, where are they?" "Think about that for a while." He was still frowning. The Astronomer said, "I don't understand you." "They may not be friendly." "Oh, no. I've spoken with them. They've--" "You've spoken with them. Call that reconnaissance. What would their next step be? Invasion?" "But they only have one ship, sir." "You know that only because they say so. They might have a fleet." "I've told you about their size. They--" "Their size would not matter, if they have handweapons that may well be superior to our artillery." "That is not what I meant." "I had this partly in mind from the first." The Industrialist went on. "It is for that reason I agreed to see them after I received your letter. Not to agree to an unsettling and impossible trade, but to judge their real purposes. I did not count on their evading the meeting." He sighed. "I suppose it isn't our fault. You are right in one thing, at any rate. The world has been at peace too long. We are losing a healthy sense of suspicion." The Astronomer's mild voice rose to an unusual pitch and he said, "I _will_ speak. I tell you that there is no reason to suppose they can possibly be hostile. They are small, yes, but that is only important because it is a reflection of the fact that their native worlds are small. Our world has what is for them a normal gravity, but because of our much higher gravitational potential, our atmosphere is too dense to support them comfortably over sustained periods. For a similar reason the use of the world as a base for interstellar travel, except for trade in certain items, is uneconomical. And there are important differences in chemistry of life due to the basic differences in soils. They couldn't eat our food or we theirs." "Surely all this can be overcome. They can bring their own food, build domed stations of lowered air pressure, devise specially designed ships." "They can. And how glibly you can describe feats that are easy to a race in its youth. It is simply that they don't have to do any of that. There are millions of worlds suitable for them in the Galaxy. They don't need this one which isn't." "How do you know? All this is their information again." "This I was able to check independently. I am an astronomer, after all." "That is true. Let me hear what you have to say then, while we walk." "Then, sir, consider that for a long time our astronomers have believed that two general classes of planetary bodies existed. First, the planets which formed at distances far enough from their stellar nucleus to become cool enough to capture hydrogen. These would be large planets rich in hydrogen, ammonia and methane. We have examples of these in the giant outer planets. The second class would include those planets formed so near the stellar center that the high temperature would make it impossible to capture much hydrogen. These would be smaller planets, comparatively poorer in hydrogen and richer in oxygen. We know that type very well since we live on one. Ours is the only solar system we know in detail, however, and it has been reasonable for us to assume that these were the _only_ two planetary classes." "I take it then that there is another." "Yes. There is a super-dense class, still smaller, poorer in hydrogen, than the inner planets of the solar system. The ratio of occurrence of hydrogen-ammonia planets and these super-dense water-oxygen worlds of theirs over the entire Galaxy--and remember that they have actually conducted a survey of significant sample volumes of the Galaxy which we, without interstellar travel, cannot do--is about 3 to 1. This leaves them seven million super-dense worlds for exploration and colonization." The Industrialist looked at the blue sky and the green-covered trees among which they were making their way. He said, "And worlds like ours?" The Astronomer said, softly, "Ours is the first solar system they have found which contains them. Apparently the development of our solar system was unique and did not follow the ordinary rules." The Industrialist considered that. "What it amounts to is that these creatures from space are asteroid-dwellers." "No, no. The asteroids are something else again. They occur, I was told, in one out of eight stellar systems, but they're completely different from what we've been discussing." "And how does your being an astronomer change the fact that you are still only quoting their unsupported statements?" "But they did not restrict themselves to bald items of information. They presented me with a theory of stellar evolution which I had to accept and which is more nearly valid than anything our own astronomy has ever been able to devise, if we except possible lost theories dating from Beforethewars. Mind you, their theory had a rigidly mathematical development and it predicted just such a Galaxy as they describe. So you see, they have all the worlds they wish. They are not land-hungry. Certainly not for our land." "Reason would say so, if what you say is true. But creatures may be intelligent and not reasonable. Our forefathers were presumably intelligent, yet they were certainly not reasonable. Was it reasonable to destroy almost all their tremendous civilization in atomic warfare over causes our historians can no longer accurately determine?" The Industrialist brooded over it. "From the dropping of the first atom bomb over those islands--I forget the ancient name--there was only one end in sight, and in plain sight. Yet events were allowed to proceed to that end." He looked up, said briskly, "Well, where are we? I wonder if we are not on a fool's errand after all." But the Astronomer was a little in advance and his voice came thickly. "No fool's errand, sir. Look there." VI Red and Slim had trailed their elders with the experience of youth, aided by the absorption and anxiety of their fathers. Their view of the final object of the search was somewhat obscured by the underbrush behind which they remained. Red said, "Holy Smokes. Look at that. It's all shiny silver or something." But it was Slim who was really excited. He caught at the other. "I know what this is. It's a space-ship. That must be why my father came here. He's one of the biggest astronomers in the world and your father would have to call him if a space-ship landed on his estate." "What are you talking about? Dad didn't even know that thing was there. He only came here because I told him I heard the thunder from here. Besides, there isn't any such thing as a space-ship." "Sure, there is. Look at it. See those round things. They are ports. And you can see the rocket tubes." "How do you know so much?" Slim was flushed. He said, "I read about them. My father has books about them. Old books. From Beforethewars." "Huh. Now I know you're making it up. Books from Beforethewars!" "My father _has_ to have them. He teaches at the University. It's his job." His voice had risen and Red had to pull at him. "You want them to hear us?" he whispered indignantly. "Well, it is, too, a space-ship." "Look here, Slim, you mean that's a ship from another world." "It's _got_ to be. Look at my father going round and round it. He wouldn't be so interested if it was anything else." "Other worlds! Where are there other worlds?" "Everywhere. How about the planets? They're worlds just like ours, some of them. And other stars probably have planets. There's probably zillions of planets." Red felt outweighed and outnumbered. He muttered, "You're crazy!" "All right, then. I'll show you." "Hey! Where are you going?" "Down there. I'm going to ask my father. I suppose you'll believe it if _he_ tells you. I suppose you'll believe a Professor of Astronomy knows what--" He had scrambled upright. Red said, "Hey. You don't want them to see us. We're not supposed to be here. Do you want them to start asking questions and find out about our animals?" "I don't care. You said I was crazy." "Snitcher! You promised you wouldn't tell." "I'm _not_ going to tell. But if they find out themselves, it's your fault, for starting an argument and saying I was crazy." "I take it back, then," grumbled Red. "Well, all right. You better." In a way, Slim was disappointed. He wanted to see the space-ship at closer quarters. Still, he could not break his vow of secrecy even in spirit without at least the excuse of personal insult. Red said, "It's awfully small for a space-ship." "Sure, because it's probably a scout-ship." "I'll bet Dad couldn't even get into the old thing." So much Slim realized to be true. It was a weak point in his argument and he made no answer. His interest was absorbed by the adults. Red rose to his feet; an elaborate attitude of boredom all about him. "Well, I guess we better be going. There's business to do and I can't spend all day here looking at some old space-ship or whatever it is. We've got to take care of the animals if we're going to be circus-folks. That's the first rule with circus-folks. They've got to take care of the animals. And," he finished virtuously, "that's what I aim to do, anyway." Slim said, "What for, Red? They've got plenty of meat. Let's watch." "There's no fun in watching. Besides Dad and your father are going away and I guess it's about lunch time." Red became argumentative. "Look, Slim, we can't start acting suspicious or they're going to start investigating. Holy Smokes, don't you ever read any detective stories? When you're trying to work a big deal without being caught, it's practically the main thing to keep on acting just like always. Then they don't suspect anything. That's the first law--" "Oh, all right." Slim rose resentfully. At the moment, the circus appeared to him a rather tawdry and shoddy substitute for the glories of astronomy, and he wondered how he had come to fall in with Red's silly scheme. Down the slope they went, Slim, as usual, in the rear. VII The Industrialist said, "It's the workmanship that gets me. I never saw such construction." "What good is it now?" said the Astronomer, bitterly. "There's nothing left. There'll be no second landing. This ship detected life on our planet through accident. Other exploring parties would come no closer than necessary to establish the fact that there were no super-dense worlds existing in our solar system." "Well, there's no quarreling with a crash landing." "The ship hardly seems damaged. If only some had survived, the ship might have been repaired." "If they had survived, there would be no trade in any case. They're too different. Too disturbing. In any case--it's over." They entered the house and the Industrialist greeted his wife calmly. "Lunch about ready, dear." "I'm afraid not. You see--" She looked hesitantly at the Astronomer. "Is anything wrong?" asked the Industrialist. "Why not tell me? I'm sure our guest won't mind a little family discussion." "Pray don't pay any attention whatever to me," muttered the Astronomer. He moved miserably to the other end of the living room. The woman said, in low, hurried tones, "Really, dear, cook's that upset. I've been soothing her for hours and honestly, I don't know why Red should have done it." "Done what?" The Industrialist was more amused than otherwise. It had taken the united efforts of himself and his son months to argue his wife into using the name "Red" rather than the perfectly ridiculous (viewed youngster fashion) name which was his real one. She said, "He's taken most of the chopped meat." "He's eaten it?" "Well, I hope not. It was raw." "Then what would he want it for?" "I haven't the slightest idea. I haven't seen him since breakfast. Meanwhile cook's just furious. She caught him vanishing out the kitchen door and there was the bowl of chopped meat just about empty and she was going to use it for lunch. Well, you know cook. She had to change the lunch menu and that means she won't be worth living with for a week. You'll just have to speak to Red, dear, and make him promise not to do things in the kitchen any more. And it wouldn't hurt to have him apologize to cook." "Oh, come. She works for us. If we don't complain about a change in lunch menu, why should she?" "Because she's the one who has double-work made for her, and she's talking about quitting. Good cooks aren't easy to get. Do you remember the one before her?" It was a strong argument. The Industrialist looked about vaguely. He said, "I suppose you're right. He isn't here, I suppose. When he comes in, I'll talk to him." "You'd better start. Here he comes." Red walked into the house and said cheerfully, "Time for lunch, I guess." He looked from one parent to the other in quick speculation at their fixed stares and said, "Got to clean up first, though," and made for the other door. The Industrialist said, "One moment, son." "Sir?" "Where's your little friend?" Red said, carelessly, "He's around somewhere. We were just sort of walking and I looked around and he wasn't there." This was perfectly true, and Red felt on safe ground. "I told him it was lunch time. I said, 'I suppose it's about lunch time.' I said, 'We got to be getting back to the house.' And he said, 'Yes.' And I just went on and then when I was about at the creek I looked around and--" The Astronomer interrupted the voluble story, looking up from a magazine he had been sightlessly rummaging through. "I wouldn't worry about my youngster. He is quite self-reliant. Don't wait lunch for him." "Lunch isn't ready in any case, Doctor." The Industrialist turned once more to his son. "And talking about that, son, the reason for it is that something happened to the ingredients. Do you have anything to say?" "Sir?" "I hate to feel that I have to explain myself more fully. Why did you take the chopped meat?" "The chopped meat?" "The chopped meat." He waited patiently. Red said, "Well, I was sort of--" "Hungry?" prompted his father. "For raw meat?" "No, sir. I just sort of needed it." "For what exactly?" Red looked miserable and remained silent. The Astronomer broke in again. "If you don't mind my putting in a few words--You'll remember that just after breakfast my son came in to ask what animals ate." "Oh, you're right. How stupid of me to forget. Look here, Red, did you take it for an animal pet you've got?" Red recovered indignant breath. He said, "You mean Slim came in here and said I had an animal? He came in here and said that? He said I had an animal?" "No, he didn't. He simply asked what animals ate. That's all. Now if he promised he wouldn't tell on you, he didn't. It's your own foolishness in trying to take something without permission that gave you away. That happened to be stealing. Now have you an animal? I ask you a direct question." "Yes, sir." It was a whisper so low as hardly to be heard. "All right, you'll have to get rid of it. Do you understand?" Red's mother intervened. "Do you mean to say you're keeping a meat-eating animal, Red? It might bite you and give you blood-poison." "They're only small ones," quavered Red. "They hardly budge if you touch them." "They? How many do you have?" "Two." "Where are they?" The Industrialist touched her arm. "Don't chivvy the child any further," he said, in a low voice. "If he says he'll get rid of them, he will, and that's punishment enough." He dismissed the matter from his mind. VIII Lunch was half over when Slim dashed into the dining room. For a moment, he stood abashed, and then he said in what was almost hysteria, "I've got to speak to Red. I've got to say something." Red looked up in fright, but the Astronomer said, "I don't think, son, you're being very polite. You've kept lunch waiting." "I'm sorry, Father." "Oh, don't rate the lad," said the Industrialist's wife. "He can speak to Red if he wants to, and there was no damage done to the lunch." "I've got to speak to Red alone," Slim insisted. "Now that's enough," said the Astronomer with a kind of gentleness that was obviously manufactured for the benefit of strangers and which had beneath it an easily-recognized edge. "Take your seat." Slim did so, but he ate only when someone looked directly upon him. Even then he was not very successful. Red caught his eyes. He made soundless words, "Did the animals get loose?" Slim shook his head slightly. He whispered, "No, it's--" The Astronomer looked at him hard and Slim faltered to a stop. With lunch over, Red slipped out of the room, with a microscopic motion at Slim to follow. They walked in silence to the creek. Then Red turned fiercely upon his companion. "Look here, what's the idea of telling my Dad we were feeding animals?" Slim said, "I didn't. I asked what you feed animals. That's not the same as saying we were doing it. Besides, it's something else, Red." But Red had not used up his grievances. "And where did you go anyway? I thought you were coming to the house. They acted like it was my fault you weren't there." "But I'm trying to tell you about that, if you'd only shut _up_ a second and let me talk. You don't give a fellow a chance." "Well, go on and tell me if you've got so much to say." "I'm _trying_ to. I went back to the space-ship. The folks weren't there anymore and I wanted to see what it was like." "It isn't a space-ship," said Red, sullenly. He had nothing to lose. "It is, too. I looked inside. You could look through the ports and I looked inside and they were _dead_." He looked sick. "They were dead." "_Who_ were dead." Slim screeched, "Animals! like _our_ animals! Only they _aren't_ animals. They're people-things from other planets." For a moment Red might have been turned to stone. It didn't occur to him to disbelieve Slim at this point. Slim looked too genuinely the bearer of just such tidings. He said, finally, "Oh, my." "Well, what are we going to do? Golly, will we get a whopping if they find out?" He was shivering. "We better turn them loose," said Red. "They'll tell on us." "They can't talk our language. Not if they're from another planet." "Yes, they can. Because I remember my father talking about some stuff like that to my mother when he didn't know I was in the room. He was talking about visitors who could talk with the mind. Telepathery or something. I thought he was making it up." "Well, Holy Smokes. I mean--Holy Smokes." Red looked up. "I tell you. My Dad said to get rid of them. Let's sort of bury them somewhere or throw them in the creek." "He _told_ you to do that." "He made me say I had animals and then he said, 'Get rid of them.' I got to do what he says. Holy Smokes, he's my Dad." Some of the panic left Slim's heart. It was a thoroughly legalistic way out. "Well, let's do it right now, then, before they find out. Oh, golly, if they find out, will we be in trouble!" They broke into a run toward the barn, unspeakable visions in their minds. IX It was different, looking at them as though they were "people." As animals, they had been interesting; as "people," horrible. Their eyes, which were neutral little objects before, now seemed to watch them with active malevolence. "They're making noises," said Slim, in a whisper which was barely audible. "I guess they're talking or something," said Red. Funny that those noises which they had heard before had not had significance earlier. He was making no move toward them. Neither was Slim. The canvas was off but they were just watching. The ground meat, Slim noticed, hadn't been touched. Slim said, "Aren't you going to do something?" "Aren't you?" "You found them." "It's your turn, now." "No, it isn't. You found them. It's your fault, the whole thing. I was watching." "You joined in, Slim. You know you did." "I don't care. You found them and that's what I'll say when they come here looking for us." Red said, "All right for you." But the thought of the consequences inspired him anyway, and he reached for the cage door. Slim said, "Wait!" Red was glad to. He said, "Now what's biting you?" "One of them's got something on him that looks like it might be iron or something." "Where?" "Right there. I saw it before but I thought it was just part of him. But if he's 'people,' maybe it's a disintegrator gun." "What's that?" "I read about it in the books from Beforethewars. Mostly people with space-ships have disintegrator guns. They point them at you and you get disintegratored." "They didn't point it at us till now," pointed out Red with his heart not quite in it. "I don't care. I'm not hanging around here and getting disintegratored. I'm getting my father." "Cowardy-cat. Yellow cowardy-cat." "I don't care. You can call all the names you want, but if you bother them now you'll get disintegratored. You wait and see, and it'll be all your fault." He made for the narrow spiral stairs that led to the main floor of the barn, stopped at its head, then backed away. Red's mother was moving up, panting a little with the exertion and smiling a tight smile for the benefit of Slim in his capacity as guest. "Red! You, Red! Are you up there? Now don't try to hide. I know this is where you're keeping them. Cook saw where you ran with the meat." Red quavered, "Hello, ma!" "Now show me those nasty animals? I'm going to see to it that you get rid of them right away." It was over! And despite the imminent corporal punishment, Red felt something like a load fall from him. At least the decision was out of his hands. "Right there, ma. I didn't do anything to them, ma. I didn't know. They just looked like little animals and I thought you'd let me keep them, ma. I wouldn't have taken the meat only they wouldn't eat grass or leaves and we couldn't find good nuts or berries and cook never lets me have anything or I would have asked her and I didn't know it was for lunch and--" He was speaking on the sheer momentum of terror and did not realize that his mother did not hear him but, with eyes frozen and popping at the cage, was screaming in thin, piercing tones. X The Astronomer was saying, "A quiet burial is all we can do. There is no point in any publicity now," when they heard the screams. She had not entirely recovered by the time she reached them, running and running. It was minutes before her husband could extract sense from her. She was saying, finally, "I tell you they're in the barn. I don't know what they are. No, no--" She barred the Industrialist's quick movement in that direction. She said, "Don't _you_ go. Send one of the hands with a shotgun. I tell you I never saw anything like it. Little horrible beasts with--with--I can't describe it. To think that Red was touching them and trying to feed them. He was _holding_ them, and feeding them meat." Red began, "I only--" And Slim said, "It was not--" The Industrialist said, quickly, "Now you boys have done enough harm today. March! Into the house! And not a word; not one word! I'm not interested in anything you have to say. After this is all over, I'll hear you out and as for you, Red, I'll see that you're properly punished." He turned to his wife. "Now whatever the animals are, we'll have them killed." He added quietly once the youngsters were out of hearing, "Come, come. The children aren't hurt and, after all, they haven't done anything really terrible. They've just found a new pet." The Astronomer spoke with difficulty. "Pardon me, ma'am, but can you describe these animals?" She shook her head. She was quite beyond words. "Can you just tell me if they--" "I'm sorry," said the Industrialist, apologetically, "but I think I had better take care of her. Will you excuse me?" "A moment. Please. One moment. She said she had never seen such animals before. Surely it is not usual to find animals that are completely unique on an estate such as this." "I'm sorry. Let's not discuss that now." "Except that unique animals might have landed during the night." The Industrialist stepped away from his wife. "What are you implying?" "I think we had better go to the barn, sir!" The Industrialist stared a moment, turned and suddenly and quite uncharacteristically began running. The Astronomer followed and the woman's wail rose unheeded behind them. XI The Industrialist stared, looked at the Astronomer, turned to stare again. "Those?" "Those," said the Astronomer. "I have no doubt we appear strange and repulsive to them." "What do they say?" "Why, that they are uncomfortable and tired and even a little sick, but that they are not seriously damaged, and that the youngsters treated them well." "Treated them well! Scooping them up, keeping them in a cage, giving them grass and raw meat to eat? Tell me how to speak to them." "It may take a little time. Think _at_ them. Try to listen. It will come to you, but perhaps not right away." The Industrialist tried. He grimaced with the effort of it, thinking over and over again, "The youngsters were ignorant of your identity." And the thought was suddenly in his mind: "We were quite aware of it and because we knew they meant well by us according to their own view of the matter, we did not attempt to attack them." "Attack them?" thought the Industrialist, and said it aloud in his concentration. "Why, yes," came the answering thought. "We are armed." One of the revolting little creatures in the cage lifted a metal object and there was a sudden hole in the top of the cage and another in the roof of the barn, each hole rimmed with charred wood. "We hope," the creatures thought, "it will not be too difficult to make repairs." The Industrialist found it impossible to organize himself to the point of directed thought. He turned to the Astronomer. "And with that weapon in their possession they let themselves be handled and caged? I don't understand it." But the calm thought came, "We would not harm the young of an intelligent species." XII It was twilight. The Industrialist had entirely missed the evening meal and remained unaware of the fact. He said, "Do you really think the ship will fly?" "If they say so," said the Astronomer, "I'm sure it will. They'll be back, I hope, before too long." "And when they do," said the Industrialist, energetically, "I will keep my part of the agreement. What is more I will move sky and earth to have the world accept them. I was entirely wrong, Doctor. Creatures that would refuse to harm children, under such provocation as they received, are admirable. But you know--I almost hate to say this--" "Say what?" "The kids. Yours and mine. I'm almost proud of them. Imagine seizing these creatures, feeding them or trying to, and keeping them hidden. The amazing gall of it. Red told me it was his idea to get a job in a circus on the strength of them. Imagine!" The Astronomer said, "Youth!" XIII The Merchant said, "Will we be taking off soon?" "Half an hour," said the Explorer. It was going to be a lonely trip back. All the remaining seventeen of the crew were dead and their ashes were to be left on a strange planet. Back they would go with a limping ship and the burden of the controls entirely on himself. The Merchant said, "It was a good business stroke, not harming the young ones. We will get very good terms; _very_ good terms." The Explorer thought: Business! The Merchant then said, "They've lined up to see us off. All of them. You don't think they're too close, do you? It would be bad to burn any of them with the rocket blast at this stage of the game." "They're safe." "Horrible-looking things, aren't they?" "Pleasant enough, inside. Their thoughts are perfectly friendly." "You wouldn't believe it of them. That immature one, the one that first picked us up--" "They call him Red," provided the Explorer. "That's a queer name for a monster. Makes me laugh. He actually feels _bad_ that we're leaving. Only I can't make out exactly why. The nearest I can come to it is something about a lost opportunity with some organization or other that I can't quite interpret." "A circus," said the Explorer, briefly. "What? Why, the impertinent monstrosity." "Why not? What would you have done if you had found _him_ wandering on _your_ native world; found him sleeping on a field on Earth, red tentacles, six legs, pseudopods and all?" XIV Red watched the ship leave. His red tentacles, which gave him his nickname, quivered their regret at lost opportunity to the very last, and the eyes at their tips filled with drifting yellowish crystals that were the equivalent of Earthly tears.
Magfest was fun. Now back to stories
This is less so a story, more so a short...not sure what to call it...but I like it.
Earth And Her Children Behold You Author unknown
The severed hand
The Severed Hand by Wilhelm Hauff
http://www.readbookonline.net/readOnLine/46448/ A creepy little one.
[This story is related by a Greek merchant, in the collection called "Die Karavane."]
My father, who in his youth had also travelled, agreed, and the Frank told me to be ready in three months. I was delighted beyond measure at the prospect of seeing foreign lands, and could scarcely await the time when we should embark. Having at length concluded all his business, the Frank prepared for his voyage, and on the evening previous to our departure my father took me to his lodgings. Here I saw beautiful dresses and arms lying on the table; but what most attracted my eyes was a large heap of gold, as I had never before seen so much together. My father embraced me, saying, "Behold, my son, I have provided these clothes for your voyage; those arms are yours, and they are the same your grandfather gave me when I went forth to foreign countries. I know you can wield them, but never use them excepting in self-defence, and then fight bravely. My fortune is not large; but see, I have divided it into three parts, of which one is yours, one shall be for my support and wants, but the third shall be sacred property, and devoted to the purpose of saving you in the hour of need." Thus spoke my aged father, and tears trembled in his eyes, perhaps from a certain presentiment, for I never saw him again.
Our voyage was prosperous; we soon reached the land of the Franks, and in six days' journey, after landing, we came to the great city of Paris. Here my Frankish friend hired a room and advised me to use proper discretion in laying out my money, which in all was two thousand thalers. I lived for three years in this city, and learned what every skilful physician ought to know; but I should not speak the truth were I to say that I liked the place, for the manners and customs of this people did not suit me. Moreover, I had but few friends, though these were indeed noble young men.
The desire of seeing my native country, at length, became strong; and having all this time heard nothing of my father, I seized a favourable opportunity to return home.
This opportunity was afforded me by an embassy from the land of the Franks to the Sublime Porte. I engaged myself as surgeon in the suite of the ambassador, and was fortunate enough to return to Constantinople. There I found my father's house closed, and the neighbours were astonished when they saw me, and told me that my father had died two months since. The priest who had instructed me in my youth brought me the keys of the now desolate house, which I entered alone and forsaken. I found every thing as my father had left it, only the money he had promised to bequeath me was not there. I inquired of the priest about it, who, with a bow, told me that my father had died as a holy man, since he had bequeathed all his money to the church.
The latter circumstance has ever since been inexplicable to me. Yet what could I do? I had no witnesses against the priest, and could not but consider myself fortunate that he had not also claimed as a legacy the house and goods of my father. This was the first calamity that befel me, but from that time misfortunes succeeded each other. My reputation as a physician spread but slowly, because I was ashamed to play the quack, and I wanted everywhere the recommendation of my father, who would have introduced me to the wealthiest and noblest persons, who now no longer thought of poor Zaleukos. Neither could I find customers for my father's goods, for all had gone elsewhere after his death, and new ones come but slowly. Once sadly reflecting on my situation it occurred to me that I had often seen in France men of my native land, who travelled through the country, exposing their goods in the market-places of the towns; I remembered that they easily found customers because they came from a foreign country, and that by such traffic one might profit a hundred-fold. My resolution was soon taken. I sold my father's house, gave part of the money I received for it to a tried friend to keep for me, and with the rest I purchased such things as are seldom seen in the west--viz: shawls, silks, ointments, and perfumes. Having engaged a berth in a ship, I thus set out on my second voyage to France. As soon as I had turned my back on the castles of the Dardanelles it seemed as if fortune would again smile on me. Our passage was short and prosperous.
I travelled through large and small towns, and found everywhere ready purchasers of my goods. My friend in Constantinople supplied me constantly with fresh goods, and I daily became more wealthy.
When at length I thought I had saved enough to risk a greater enterprise, I went to Italy. But I must here mention that I derived no small additional profit from the healing art. Whenever I entered a town, I announced, by bills, that a Greek physician had arrived, who had already cured many; and truly my balsams and medicines brought me in many a zechino. I now reached the city of Florence, in Italy, where I purposed remaining for some time, as I liked it much, and wished to recover from the fatigues of my travels. I hired a shop in the quarter called Santa Croce, and in an inn not far from thence two beautiful rooms which led to a balcony. Having made these arrangements, I had my bills placarded about, announcing myself as a physician and merchant. I had no sooner opened my shop than I had crowds of customers, and though my prices were rather high, I sold more than others, because I was civil and obliging to my customers. When I had thus pleasantly spent four days in Florence, I was one evening about closing my shop, and only had to examine my stock of boxes of ointments, as was my custom, when I found in a small jar a piece of paper which I did not recollect to have put there. On opening it I discovered that it was an invitation for me to appear that night at twelve o'clock precisely on the bridge called Ponte Vecchio. I conjectured a long time who it could possibly be that invited me thither, but, not knowing a soul in Florence, I thought some one wished, perhaps, to take me secretly to some sick person, which was not uncommon, and I therefore determined to go. However, I took the precaution to buckle on the sword my father had given me.
When it was near midnight I set out on my way, and soon arrived at the Ponte Vecchio. I found the bridge forsaken and lonely, and determined to await the person who had appointed to meet me.
It was a cold night, the moon shone brightly, and I looked down on the waves of the Arno, glistening in the moonlight. The church clocks now struck the midnight hour, I looked up and saw before me a tall man, enveloped in a red cloak, a corner of which he had drawn over his face.
At first, I was rather terrified, at his suddenly appearing behind me, but soon recovered myself, and said, "If you have summoned me hither, say what is your command." The Red Cloak turned round, and slowly said, "Follow me." I felt somewhat uneasy at the thought of following the stranger alone; so I stood still, saying, "Nay, sir, please first to tell me whither. Moreover, you might let me have a peep at your face, that I may see whether you intend any good with me." But the Red Cloak did not seem to mind my words, "If you will not follow, Zaleukos, stop where you are," he said, and then went on. Now my anger was roused, and I cried, "Think you a man like me, will submit to be tantalized by any fool, and to wait for nothing in a cold night like this?" In three leaps I overtook him, seized him by the cloak, and cried still louder, while grasping my sword with the other hand. But the cloak alone remained in my hand, and the stranger vanished round the next corner. My rage gradually subsided, but still I held the cloak, and this I expected would give me a clue to this singular adventure. I wrapped it round me, and walked home. When I was about a hundred paces from my house, some one passed close by me, and whispered to me in French, "Be on your guard, Count, there is nothing to be done to night." But before I could look round, this somebody had passed, and I only saw his shadow glide along the houses. That those words were addressed to the owner of the cloak and not to me was pretty evident, but this threw no light on the affair. The following morning, I considered what I should do. At first I intended to have the cloak cried, as if I had found it: on reflection, however, I thought the owner might send another person for it, and that I might still have no clue to the discovery. While thus considering, I looked at the cloak more narrowly; It was of heavy Genoese reddish purple velvet, edged with Astracan fur, and richly embroidered with gold. The sight of this splendid cloak suggested an idea to me, which I resolved to execute. I carried it to my shop, and exposed it for sale, but set upon it so high a price, that I felt sure I should not find a purchaser. My object in this was to look closely at every person who might ask the price; for I thought I could discover, among a thousand, the figure of the stranger, which after the loss of the cloak had shown itself to me distinctly, though but for a moment. Many came desirous of buying the cloak, the extraordinary beauty of which attracted every eye, but no one had the remotest resemblance to the stranger, and none would pay for it the high price of two-hundred zechinos. What struck me most was, that all whom I asked whether they had ever seen such a cloak in Florence before, replied in the negative, assuring me they had never seen such costly and tasteful work.
As evening approached, a young man came who had often been in my shop, and had also during the day made a handsome offer for it. He threw a purse of zechinos on the table, saying, "By Heavens, Zuleukos I must have your cloak, though it will beggar me!" At these words he counted down the gold. I was greatly embarrassed, having only exposed the cloak for sale in hopes of attracting the looks of its owner, and now comes a young madcap to pay the exorbitant price. But what could I do? I yielded; for the idea was pleasing of being so handsomely recompensed for my nocturnal adventure. The young man put on the cloak and went away; but returned at the door, as he took off a paper which was fastened to it, threw it to me, and said, "Here, Zaleukos is something which I think does not belong to the cloak." I took the paper carelessly, when behold! it contained these words:
"Bring the cloak to night at the usual hour to the Ponte Vecchio, and four hundred zechinos shall be yours." I was thunderstruck. Thus then I had trifled with my good luck, and utterly missed my aim; but I soon recovered, took the two-hundred zechinos, followed him, and said, "Take back your money, my friend, and leave me the cloak, I cannot possibly part with it." He thought at first I was joking, but when he perceived I was in earnest, he flew into a rage at my demand, called me a fool, and we at length came to blows. In the scuffle, I was fortunate enough to secure the cloak, and was about to run off with it, when the young man called the police to his assistance, and brought me before the magistrate. The latter was much surprised at the accusation, and awarded the cloak to my opponent. I now offered the young man twenty, fifty, eighty, nay, a hundred zechinos, if he would let me have it. My gold effected what my entreaties could not. He took my money, I went off triumphant with the cloak, and was obliged to submit to be called mad by all Florence. But I cared little for the opinion of the people, since I knew more than they, viz: that I still gained by my bargain.
I awaited the night with impatience. About the same time as before I went to the Ponte Vecchio, with the cloak under my arm. The figure approached me with the last stroke of the clock, and I could not be mistaken as to its identity. "Have you the cloak?" was the question. "I have, sir," I answered, "but it cost me a hundred zechinos." "I know it," he replied; "here are four hundred for it." With these words he stepped to the broad balustrade and counted down the gold, four hundred pieces, which sparkled beautifully in the moonlight; their glitter delighted my heart, which, alas! little imagined that this was its last joy. I put the money in my pocket, and was going to take a close survey of the kind unknown, but he had on a mask, through which his dark eyes flashed at me frightfully. "I thank you, sir, for your kindness," said I. "What else do you desire of me? for I must tell you beforehand that it must be nothing underhanded." "Unnecessary fear," he replied, as he wrapped the cloak round him. "I want your assistance as a physician, not, however, for one living, but for one who is dead."
"How can that be?" I exclaimed, astonished. He beckoned me to follow him, and related as follows: "I came here from foreign lands with my sister, and have lived with her at the house of a friend, where she died suddenly yesterday. Her relatives wish her to be buried to-morrow; and by an ancient custom in our family every member is to be buried in the vault of our ancestors, where many who died in foreign countries now repose embalmed. I wish to leave her body to our relations here, but must take to my father her head, at least, that he may see his daughter's face once more."
This custom of cutting off the head of beloved relatives seemed to me somewhat repulsive, but I did not venture to raise any objections, fearing to give offence to the stranger. I therefore told him that I well understood embalming the dead and begged him to take me to the deceased. At the same time I could not refrain from asking him why all this must be done so mysteriously, and in the night. To this he answered, that his relations, considering his intention as somewhat cruel, would prevent him if he attempted it during the daytime; but that if the head was once severed they would say little about it; that he, indeed, would have brought me the head himself had not a natural feeling deterred him from performing the operation.
In the meanwhile we arrived at a large, splendid mansion, which my companion pointed out as the end of our nocturnal walk. Passing the principal gate we entered the house by a small door, which he carefully fastened after him, and ascended, in the dark, a narrow winding staircase. This led to a faintly lighted corridor through which we came to an apartment, which was lighted by a lamp suspended from the ceiling.
In this apartment was a bed in which the corpse lay. The stranger averted his face and seemed anxious to hide his tears. Pointing to the bed, he ordered me to do my business well and expeditiously, and left the apartment.
I took my knives out of the case, which, as a doctor, I always carried, and approached the bed. Only the head of the corpse was visible; it was so beautiful that, involuntarily, I felt compassion in my inmost heart; the dark hair hung in long tresses over the pale face, and the eyes were closed. I commenced, according to the custom of surgeons when they amputate a limb, by making an incision in the skin. Then taking my sharpest knife I cut the throat with one stroke. Oh! horror! the dead opened her eyes, but closed them again immediately, and with one deep sigh now breathed forth her life. At the same time a stream of hot blood gushed over me from the wound. I was convinced that I only had killed the poor lady. That she was dead now I could no longer doubt, since such a wound was sure to be fatal. I stood for some minutes in fearful anxiety as to what I had done. Had the Red Cloak imposed on me, or had his sister only been apparently dead? The latter seemed to me the more probable, but I dare not tell the brother of the dead that a less speedy cut would perhaps have aroused her without killing her. I was going, therefore, to sever the head entirely, when the dying lady once more groaned, stretched herself in painful convulsions, and then expired. Overcome by terror, I rushed shuddering from the apartment. It was dark in the corridor without, the lamp was extinguished, no trace of my companion was to be discovered, and I was obliged to grope my way along the wall at hazard in order to reach the winding staircase. I found it at length, and hurried down precipitately. There was no one visible below, the door was ajar, and when I reached the street I breathed more freely, having felt oppressed with horror in the house. Spurred on by terror, I hastened towards my lodging and buried myself in the pillows of my couch, to forget the atrocious deed I had perpetrated. But sleep fled from me, and the morning first summoned me to composure. It seemed to me probable that the man who had seduced me to the fearful act, as it now appeared to me, would not inform against me. I determined to go into my shop to business and assume, if possible, a cheerful air. But alas! a new circumstance which I observed only now, increased my anxiety; I missed my cap and belt, as well as the knives, and was uncertain whether I had left them in the apartment of the murdered lady, or had lost them in my flight. The former, unfortunately, seemed more probable, and the knives would therefore betray me as the murderer.
I opened my shop at the usual time, and my neighbour came in, as he usually did in the morning, being fond of a chat. "Well, neighbour," said he, "what do you think of this horrible occurrence which took place last night?" I pretended not to know any thing about it. "What! do you pretend not to know what is known all over the town? Not to know that the fairest flower in Florence, Bianca, the daughter of the governor, was murdered last night?" Ah me! I saw her even yesterday go in her carriage with her bridegroom, for it was only yesterday she was married. Every word spoken by my neighbour was a dagger in my heart. How often were these my tortures renewed, for each of my customers repeated the story, one painting it more frightfully than the other, though none could speak all the horrors I had myself witnessed. About noon an officer from the magistrate entered my shop, and requesting me to dismiss the customers, and, producing the things I missed, he said, "Senore Zaleukos, do you own these things?" I hesitated a moment whether I had not better disown them altogether, but seeing through the half-open door my landlord and several acquaintances, who might perhaps witness against me, I determined not to aggravate the affair by telling a falsehood, and so owned the things produced. The officer desired me to follow him, and led me to a large building, which I soon recognised as a prison. He showed me into an apartment to await further orders.
My situation was terrible as I reflected on it in my solitude; the thought of having committed murder, though unintentionally, constantly returned. Neither could I deny to myself that the glitter of gold had captivated my senses, or I could not so easily have been caught in the snare. Two hours after my arrest, I was led from my room up several staircases into a large hall. Twelve persons, mostly old men, were sitting at a round table, covered with black cloth. Along the walls stood benches occupied by the nobility of Florence. In the galleries above stood the spectators, densely crowded together. When I stepped to the table, a man, with a gloomy and melancholy expression of countenance, rose: it was the president of the tribunal. Addressing the assembly, he said, that as the father of the murdered, he could not pass judgment in this matter, and therefore, ceded his place to the senior of the senators. The latter was an aged man of at least ninety years. He was bent with age, and his temples were scantily covered with a few white hairs, but his eyes still burned with lustre, and his voice was strong and firm. He began by asking me whether I confessed the murder? I demanded to be heard, and fearlessly, and in a very audible voice, related what I had done, and what I knew. I observed that the president, during my statement, was alternately flushed and pale, and that when I concluded, he started up furiously, crying to me, "What, wretch! Do you wish to charge the crime you committed from avarice upon another?" The senator called him to order for his interruption, as he had voluntarily resigned his right of judgment, remarking, moreover, that it was by no means proved that I committed the crime from avarice, as, by his own deposition, nothing had been stolen from the murdered. Indeed, he went still further, declaring that the president must give an account of the life of his daughter, for that only could enable them to determine whether I had spoken the truth or not. He now dismissed the court for that day to consult, as he said, the papers of the deceased, which the president would deliver to him.
I was again led back to my prison where I spent a sorrowful day, still ardently hoping that some connexion between the dead lady and the Red Cloak might be discovered. Full of this hope I entered the judgment hall the following day. Several letters lay on the table, and the aged senator asked me whether they were written by me. I looked at them, and found they must be by the same hand as the two slips of paper I had received. This I stated to the senate, but they did not seem to regard it, and answered that I could, and must, have written both, the initial on both letters being evidently a Z, the initial letter of my name. The letters contained menaces to the deceased, and warnings against the marriage which she was about to contract.
The president appeared to have given singular information respecting my person, for they treated me on this day more suspiciously and severely. In justification of myself I appealed to my papers which must be found in my lodgings, but they told me that they had searched and found nothing. Thus, at the closing of the court, all my hopes vanished, and when, on the third day, I was again led into the hall, the sentence was read to me that I was convicted of premeditated murder and was to die. To this condition had I come! Forsaken by all that was dear on earth, far distant from my native country, I was, though innocent, to die by the axe in the flower of youth. As I was sitting in my lonely dungeon on the evening of this terrible day that had decided my fate, all my hopes having fled, and all my thoughts being seriously fixed on death, the door opened and a man entered, who looked silently at me for a long time.
"Do I thus find you again, Zaleukos?" said he.
The faint glimmer of my lamp prevented me from recognising him, but the sound of his voice awakened in me recollections of former days. It was Valetti, one of the few friends I had known in Paris while there pursuing my studies. He told me that he happened to come to Florence where his father lived much respected, that he had heard my history, and had come to see me once more, and to learn from me how I could have committed such a heavy crime. I told him the whole story. He seemed much astonished, and conjured me to tell him, my only friend, every thing, that I might not depart this life with a lie on my conscience. I swore to him with a most solemn oath that I had spoken the truth, and that no other guilt oppressed me, but that, being dazzled by the gold, I had not at once recognised the improbability of the stranger's story.
"You did not then know Bianca?" he asked.
I assured him I had never seen her. Valetti now related to me that a deep secret was connected with the deed, that the president had very much hastened my sentence, and that a report was circulated that I had long known Bianca, and now had murdered her out of revenge for her marrying another. I observed to him, that all this applied well to the Red Cloak, but that I could not prove his participation in the deed. Valetti embraced me, weeping, and promised to do all in his power to save my life at least. I had little hope, though I knew him to be a wise man and well conversant in the law, and that he would not fail to do his utmost to save me. For two long days I remained in suspense; at length he came and exclaimed, "I bring a consolation though a sad one. You will live to be free, but must lose one hand." Deeply affected, I thanked my friend for having saved my life. He told me the president had been inexorable as to granting a new investigation into the affair, but, that he might not appear unjust, he at length agreed that if they could find a similar case in the annals of Florence, my punishment should be according to that awarded in such a case. He, therefore, with his father had now read day and night in the archives, and had, at length, found a case similar to mine, the punishment for which was that the perpetrator should have his left hand cut off, his property confiscated, and that he himself should be banished for life. This was now my sentence, and I was to prepare for the painful moment which awaited me. I will spare you this terrible moment: in the open market-place I placed my hand on the block, and my own blood gushed over me.
When all was over, Valetti took me to his house until my recovery was completed, and then nobly provided me with money for my journey, for all I had earned with so much labour had been taken from me. From Florence I went to Sicily, and thence by the first ship to Constantinople. Here I hoped to find the sum of money I had left with my friend, and begged him to receive me into his house, but what was my astonishment when he inquired why I did not take possession of my own? He informed me that a stranger had purchased a house in my name in the quarter of the Greeks, and had told the neighbours that I was soon coming. I immediately repaired thither with my friend, and was joyfully welcomed by all my old acquaintance. An aged merchant gave me a letter that had been left by the purchaser of the house for me. Its contents were as follows:
"Zaleukos! Two hands shall be constantly ready to work for you that you may not feel the loss of the one. The house you now own with all in it is yours, and you will receive every year sufficient to make you rank among the wealthy of your countrymen. May you forgive him who is more wretched than yourself!"
I could guess who was the writer of these lines, and the merchant told me, on inquiry, that he took the stranger, who wore a red cloak, for a Frank. I now knew sufficient to convince me that the stranger was not devoid of generous feelings. I found all in my new house arranged admirably, and also a shop with goods more beautiful than I ever possessed. Ten years have now elapsed, and I have continued my commercial travels more from former habit than necessity, yet I have never again seen the country where I met such a misfortune. Ever since I have annually received a thousand gold pieces, but though I rejoice to know that that unfortunate man is generous, he cannot with his money relieve my soul from its grief, for the awful picture of the murdered Bianca will for ever be present with me.
C. A. F.
[The end]
This won the Hugo, Nebula and World Fantasy Awards
"Paper Menagerie"
by Ken Liu
One of my earliest memories starts with me sobbing. I refused to be soothed no matter what Mom and Dad tried.
Dad gave up and left the bedroom, but Mom took me into the kitchen and sat me down at the breakfast table.
She set the paper down, plain side facing up, and began to fold it. I stopped crying and watched her, curious.
She turned the paper over and folded it again. She pleated, packed, tucked, rolled, and twisted until the paper disappeared between her cupped hands. Then she lifted the folded-up paper packet to her mouth and blew into it, like a balloon.
"Kan," she said. "Laohu." She put her hands down on the table and let go.
A little paper tiger stood on the table, the size of two fists placed together. The skin of the tiger was the pattern on the wrapping paper, white background with red candy canes and green Christmas trees.
I reached out to Mom's creation. Its tail twitched, and it pounced playfully at my finger. "Rawrr-sa," it growled, the sound somewhere between a cat and rustling newspapers.
I laughed, startled, and stroked its back with an index finger. The paper tiger vibrated under my finger, purring.
"Zhe jiao zhezhi," Mom said. This is called origami.
I didn't know this at the time, but Mom's kind was special. She breathed into them so that they shared her breath, and thus moved with her life. This was her magic.
#
Dad had picked Mom out of a catalog.
One time, when I was in high school, I asked Dad about the details. He was trying to get me to speak to Mom again.
He had signed up for the introduction service back in the spring of 1973. Flipping through the pages steadily, he had spent no more than a few seconds on each page until he saw the picture of Mom.
I've never seen this picture. Dad described it: Mom was sitting in a chair, her side to the camera, wearing a tight green silk cheongsam. Her head was turned to the camera so that her long black hair was draped artfully over her chest and shoulder. She looked out at him with the eyes of a calm child.
"That was the last page of the catalog I saw," he said.
The catalog said she was eighteen, loved to dance, and spoke good English because she was from Hong Kong. None of these facts turned out to be true.
He wrote to her, and the company passed their messages back and forth. Finally, he flew to Hong Kong to meet her.
"The people at the company had been writing her responses. She didn't know any English other than 'hello' and 'goodbye.'"
What kind of woman puts herself into a catalog so that she can be bought? The high school me thought I knew so much about everything. Contempt felt good, like wine.
Instead of storming into the office to demand his money back, he paid a waitress at the hotel restaurant to translate for them.
"She would look at me, her eyes halfway between scared and hopeful, while I spoke. And when the girl began translating what I said, she'd start to smile slowly."
He flew back to Connecticut and began to apply for the papers for her to come to him. I was born a year later, in the Year of the Tiger.
#
At my request, Mom also made a goat, a deer, and a water buffalo out of wrapping paper. They would run around the living room while Laohu chased after them, growling. When he caught them he would press down until the air went out of them and they became just flat, folded-up pieces of paper. I would then have to blow into them to re-inflate them so they could run around some more.
Sometimes, the animals got into trouble. Once, the water buffalo jumped into a dish of soy sauce on the table at dinner. (He wanted to wallow, like a real water buffalo.) I picked him out quickly but the capillary action had already pulled the dark liquid high up into his legs. The sauce-softened legs would not hold him up, and he collapsed onto the table. I dried him out in the sun, but his legs became crooked after that, and he ran around with a limp. Mom eventually wrapped his legs in saran wrap so that he could wallow to his heart's content (just not in soy sauce).
Also, Laohu liked to pounce at sparrows when he and I played in the backyard. But one time, a cornered bird struck back in desperation and tore his ear. He whimpered and winced as I held him and Mom patched his ear together with tape. He avoided birds after that.
And then one day, I saw a TV documentary about sharks and asked Mom for one of my own. She made the shark, but he flapped about on the table unhappily. I filled the sink with water, and put him in. He swam around and around happily. However, after a while he became soggy and translucent, and slowly sank to the bottom, the folds coming undone. I reached in to rescue him, and all I ended up with was a wet piece of paper.
Laohu put his front paws together at the edge of the sink and rested his head on them. Ears drooping, he made a low growl in his throat that made me feel guilty.
Mom made a new shark for me, this time out of tin foil. The shark lived happily in a large goldfish bowl. Laohu and I liked to sit next to the bowl to watch the tin foil shark chasing the goldfish, Laohu sticking his face up against the bowl on the other side so that I saw his eyes, magnified to the size of coffee cups, staring at me from across the bowl.
#
When I was ten, we moved to a new house across town. Two of the women neighbors came by to welcome us. Dad served them drinks and then apologized for having to run off to the utility company to straighten out the prior owner's bills. "Make yourselves at home. My wife doesn't speak much English, so don't think she's being rude for not talking to you."
While I read in the dining room, Mom unpacked in the kitchen. The neighbors conversed in the living room, not trying to be particularly quiet.
"He seems like a normal enough man. Why did he do that?"
"Something about the mixing never seems right. The child looks unfinished. Slanty eyes, white face. A little monster."
"Do you think he can speak English?"
The women hushed. After a while they came into the dining room.
"Hello there! What's your name?"
"Jack," I said.
"That doesn't sound very Chinesey."
Mom came into the dining room then. She smiled at the women. The three of them stood in a triangle around me, smiling and nodding at each other, with nothing to say, until Dad came back.
#
Mark, one of the neighborhood boys, came over with his Star Wars action figures. Obi-Wan Kenobi's lightsaber lit up and he could swing his arms and say, in a tinny voice, "Use the Force!" I didn't think the figure looked much like the real Obi-Wan at all.
Together, we watched him repeat this performance five times on the coffee table. "Can he do anything else?" I asked.
Mark was annoyed by my question. "Look at all the details," he said.
I looked at the details. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say.
Mark was disappointed by my response. "Show me your toys."
I didn't have any toys except my paper menagerie. I brought Laohu out from my bedroom. By then he was very worn, patched all over with tape and glue, evidence of the years of repairs Mom and I had done on him. He was no longer as nimble and sure-footed as before. I sat him down on the coffee table. I could hear the skittering steps of the other animals behind in the hallway, timidly peeking into the living room.
"Xiao laohu," I said, and stopped. I switched to English. "This is Tiger." Cautiously, Laohu strode up and purred at Mark, sniffing his hands.
Mark examined the Christmas-wrap pattern of Laohu's skin. "That doesn't look like a tiger at all. Your Mom makes toys for you from trash?"
I had never thought of Laohu as trash. But looking at him now, he was really just a piece of wrapping paper.
Mark pushed Obi-Wan's head again. The lightsaber flashed; he moved his arms up and down. "Use the Force!"
Laohu turned and pounced, knocking the plastic figure off the table. It hit the floor and broke, and Obi-Wan's head rolled under the couch. "Rawwww," Laohu laughed. I joined him.
Mark punched me, hard. "This was very expensive! You can't even find it in the stores now. It probably cost more than what your dad paid for your mom!"
I stumbled and fell to the floor. Laohu growled and leapt at Mark's face.
Mark screamed, more out of fear and surprise than pain. Laohu was only made of paper, after all.
Mark grabbed Laohu and his snarl was choked off as Mark crumpled him in his hand and tore him in half. He balled up the two pieces of paper and threw them at me. "Here's your stupid cheap Chinese garbage."
After Mark left, I spent a long time trying, without success, to tape together the pieces, smooth out the paper, and follow the creases to refold Laohu. Slowly, the other animals came into the living room and gathered around us, me and the torn wrapping paper that used to be Laohu.
#
My fight with Mark didn't end there. Mark was popular at school. I never want to think again about the two weeks that followed.
I came home that Friday at the end of the two weeks. "Xuexiao hao ma?" Mom asked. I said nothing and went to the bathroom. I looked into the mirror. I look nothing like her, nothing.
At dinner I asked Dad, "Do I have a chink face?"
Dad put down his chopsticks. Even though I had never told him what happened in school, he seemed to understand. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, you don't."
Mom looked at Dad, not understanding. She looked back at me. "Sha jiao chink?"
"English," I said. "Speak English."
She tried. "What happen?"
I pushed the chopsticks and the bowl before me away: stir-fried green peppers with five-spice beef. "We should eat American food."
Dad tried to reason. "A lot of families cook Chinese sometimes."
"We are not other families." I looked at him. Other families don't have moms who don't belong.
He looked away. And then he put a hand on Mom's shoulder. "I'll get you a cookbook."
Mom turned to me. "Bu haochi?"
"English," I said, raising my voice. "Speak English."
Mom reached out to touch my forehead, feeling for my temperature. "Fashao la?"
I brushed her hand away. "I'm fine. Speak English!" I was shouting.
"Speak English to him," Dad said to Mom. "You knew this was going to happen some day. What did you expect?"
Mom dropped her hands to her side. She sat, looking from Dad to me, and back to Dad again. She tried to speak, stopped, and tried again, and stopped again.
"You have to," Dad said. "I've been too easy on you. Jack needs to fit in."
Mom looked at him. "If I say 'love,' I feel here." She pointed to her lips. "If I say 'ai,' I feel here." She put her hand over her heart.
Dad shook his head. "You are in America."
Mom hunched down in her seat, looking like the water buffalo when Laohu used to pounce on him and squeeze the air of life out of him.
"And I want some real toys."
#
Dad bought me a full set of Star Wars action figures. I gave the Obi-Wan Kenobi to Mark.
I packed the paper menagerie in a large shoebox and put it under the bed.
The next morning, the animals had escaped and took over their old favorite spots in my room. I caught them all and put them back into the shoebox, taping the lid shut. But the animals made so much noise in the box that I finally shoved it into the corner of the attic as far away from my room as possible.
If Mom spoke to me in Chinese, I refused to answer her. After a while, she tried to use more English. But her accent and broken sentences embarrassed me. I tried to correct her. Eventually, she stopped speaking altogether if I were around.
Mom began to mime things if she needed to let me know something. She tried to hug me the way she saw American mothers did on TV. I thought her movements exaggerated, uncertain, ridiculous, graceless. She saw that I was annoyed, and stopped.
"You shouldn't treat your mother that way," Dad said. But he couldn't look me in the eyes as he said it. Deep in his heart, he must have realized that it was a mistake to have tried to take a Chinese peasant girl and expect her to fit in the suburbs of Connecticut.
Mom learned to cook American style. I played video games and studied French.
Every once in a while, I would see her at the kitchen table studying the plain side of a sheet of wrapping paper. Later a new paper animal would appear on my nightstand and try to cuddle up to me. I caught them, squeezed them until the air went out of them, and then stuffed them away in the box in the attic.
Mom finally stopped making the animals when I was in high school. By then her English was much better, but I was already at that age when I wasn't interested in what she had to say whatever language she used.
Sometimes, when I came home and saw her tiny body busily moving about in the kitchen, singing a song in Chinese to herself, it was hard for me to believe that she gave birth to me. We had nothing in common. She might as well be from the moon. I would hurry on to my room, where I could continue my all-American pursuit of happiness.
#
Dad and I stood, one on each side of Mom, lying on the hospital bed. She was not yet even forty, but she looked much older.
For years she had refused to go to the doctor for the pain inside her that she said was no big deal. By the time an ambulance finally carried her in, the cancer had spread far beyond the limits of surgery.
My mind was not in the room. It was the middle of the on-campus recruiting season, and I was focused on resumes, transcripts, and strategically constructed interview schedules. I schemed about how to lie to the corporate recruiters most effectively so that they'll offer to buy me. I understood intellectually that it was terrible to think about this while your mother lay dying. But that understanding didn't mean I could change how I felt.
She was conscious. Dad held her left hand with both of his own. He leaned down to kiss her forehead. He seemed weak and old in a way that startled me. I realized that I knew almost as little about Dad as I did about Mom.
Mom smiled at him. "I'm fine."
She turned to me, still smiling. "I know you have to go back to school." Her voice was very weak and it was difficult to hear her over the hum of the machines hooked up to her. "Go. Don't worry about me. This is not a big deal. Just do well in school."
I reached out to touch her hand, because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. I was relieved. I was already thinking about the flight back, and the bright California sunshine.
She whispered something to Dad. He nodded and left the room.
"Jack, if — " she was caught up in a fit of coughing, and could not speak for some time. "If I don't make it, don't be too sad and hurt your health. Focus on your life. Just keep that box you have in the attic with you, and every year, at Qingming, just take it out and think about me. I'll be with you always."
Qingming was the Chinese Festival for the Dead. When I was very young, Mom used to write a letter on Qingming to her dead parents back in China, telling them the good news about the past year of her life in America. She would read the letter out loud to me, and if I made a comment about something, she would write it down in the letter too. Then she would fold the letter into a paper crane, and release it, facing west. We would then watch, as the crane flapped its crisp wings on its long journey west, towards the Pacific, towards China, towards the graves of Mom's family.
It had been many years since I last did that with her.
"I don't know anything about the Chinese calendar," I said. "Just rest, Mom. "
"Just keep the box with you and open it once in a while. Just open — " she began to cough again.
"It's okay, Mom." I stroked her arm awkwardly.
"Haizi, mama ai ni — " Her cough took over again. An image from years ago flashed into my memory: Mom saying ai and then putting her hand over her heart.
"Alright, Mom. Stop talking."
Dad came back, and I said that I needed to get to the airport early because I didn't want to miss my flight.
She died when my plane was somewhere over Nevada.
#
Dad aged rapidly after Mom died. The house was too big for him and had to be sold. My girlfriend Susan and I went to help him pack and clean the place.
Susan found the shoebox in the attic. The paper menagerie, hidden in the uninsulated darkness of the attic for so long, had become brittle and the bright wrapping paper patterns had faded.
"I've never seen origami like this," Susan said. "Your Mom was an amazing artist."
The paper animals did not move. Perhaps whatever magic had animated them stopped when Mom died. Or perhaps I had only imagined that these paper constructions were once alive. The memory of children could not be trusted.
#
It was the first weekend in April, two years after Mom's death. Susan was out of town on one of her endless trips as a management consultant and I was home, lazily flipping through the TV channels.
I paused at a documentary about sharks. Suddenly I saw, in my mind, Mom's hands, as they folded and refolded tin foil to make a shark for me, while Laohu and I watched.
A rustle. I looked up and saw that a ball of wrapping paper and torn tape was on the floor next to the bookshelf. I walked over to pick it up for the trash.
The ball of paper shifted, unfurled itself, and I saw that it was Laohu, who I hadn't thought about in a very long time. "Rawrr-sa." Mom must have put him back together after I had given up.
He was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe it was just that back then my fists were smaller.
Susan had put the paper animals around our apartment as decoration. She probably left Laohu in a pretty hidden corner because he looked so shabby.
I sat down on the floor, and reached out a finger. Laohu's tail twitched, and he pounced playfully. I laughed, stroking his back. Laohu purred under my hand.
"How've you been, old buddy?"
Laohu stopped playing. He got up, jumped with feline grace into my lap, and proceeded to unfold himself.
In my lap was a square of creased wrapping paper, the plain side up. It was filled with dense Chinese characters. I had never learned to read Chinese, but I knew the characters for son, and they were at the top, where you'd expect them in a letter addressed to you, written in Mom's awkward, childish handwriting.
I went to the computer to check the Internet. Today was Qingming.
#
I took the letter with me downtown, where I knew the Chinese tour buses stopped. I stopped every tourist, asking, "Nin hui du zhongwen ma?" Can you read Chinese? I hadn't spoken Chinese in so long that I wasn't sure if they understood.
A young woman agreed to help. We sat down on a bench together, and she read the letter to me aloud. The language that I had tried to forget for years came back, and I felt the words sinking into me, through my skin, through my bones, until they squeezed tight around my heart.
#
Son,
We haven't talked in a long time. You are so angry when I try to touch you that I'm afraid. And I think maybe this pain I feel all the time now is something serious.
So I decided to write to you. I'm going to write in the paper animals I made for you that you used to like so much.
The animals will stop moving when I stop breathing. But if I write to you with all my heart, I'll leave a little of myself behind on this paper, in these words. Then, if you think of me onQingming, when the spirits of the departed are allowed to visit their families, you'll make the parts of myself I leave behind come alive too. The creatures I made for you will again leap and run and pounce, and maybe you'll get to see these words then.
Because I have to write with all my heart, I need to write to you in Chinese.
All this time I still haven't told you the story of my life. When you were little, I always thought I'd tell you the story when you were older, so you could understand. But somehow that chance never came up.
I was born in 1957, in Sigulu Village, Hebei Province. Your grandparents were both from very poor peasant families with few relatives. Only a few years after I was born, the Great Famines struck China, during which thirty million people died. The first memory I have was waking up to see my mother eating dirt so that she could fill her belly and leave the last bit of flour for me.
Things got better after that. Sigulu is famous for its zhezhi papercraft, and my mother taught me how to make paper animals and give them life. This was practical magic in the life of the village. We made paper birds to chase grasshoppers away from the fields, and paper tigers to keep away the mice. For Chinese New Year my friends and I made red paper dragons. I'll never forget the sight of all those little dragons zooming across the sky overhead, holding up strings of exploding firecrackers to scare away all the bad memories of the past year. You would have loved it.
Then came the Cultural Revolution in 1966. Neighbor turned on neighbor, and brother against brother. Someone remembered that my mother's brother, my uncle, had left for Hong Kong back in 1946, and became a merchant there. Having a relative in Hong Kong meant we were spies and enemies of the people, and we had to be struggled against in every way. Your poor grandmother — she couldn't take the abuse and threw herself down a well. Then some boys with hunting muskets dragged your grandfather away one day into the woods, and he never came back.
There I was, a ten-year-old orphan. The only relative I had in the world was my uncle in Hong Kong. I snuck away one night and climbed onto a freight train going south.
Down in Guangdong Province a few days later, some men caught me stealing food from a field. When they heard that I was trying to get to Hong Kong, they laughed. "It's your lucky day. Our trade is to bring girls to Hong Kong."
They hid me in the bottom of a truck along with other girls, and smuggled us across the border.
We were taken to a basement and told to stand up and look healthy and intelligent for the buyers. Families paid the warehouse a fee and came by to look us over and select one of us to "adopt."
The Chin family picked me to take care of their two boys. I got up every morning at four to prepare breakfast. I fed and bathed the boys. I shopped for food. I did the laundry and swept the floors. I followed the boys around and did their bidding. At night I was locked into a cupboard in the kitchen to sleep. If I was slow or did anything wrong I was beaten. If the boys did anything wrong I was beaten. If I was caught trying to learn English I was beaten.
"Why do you want to learn English?" Mr. Chin asked. "You want to go to the police? We'll tell the police that you are a mainlander illegally in Hong Kong. They'd love to have you in their prison."
Six years I lived like this. One day, an old woman who sold fish to me in the morning market pulled me aside.
"I know girls like you. How old are you now, sixteen? One day, the man who owns you will get drunk, and he'll look at you and pull you to him and you can't stop him. The wife will find out, and then you will think you really have gone to hell. You have to get out of this life. I know someone who can help."
She told me about American men who wanted Asian wives. If I can cook, clean, and take care of my American husband, he'll give me a good life. It was the only hope I had. And that was how I got into the catalog with all those lies and met your father. It is not a very romantic story, but it is my story.
In the suburbs of Connecticut, I was lonely. Your father was kind and gentle with me, and I was very grateful to him. But no one understood me, and I understood nothing.
But then you were born! I was so happy when I looked into your face and saw shades of my mother, my father, and myself. I had lost my entire family, all of Sigulu, everything I ever knew and loved. But there you were, and your face was proof that they were real. I hadn't made them up.
Now I had someone to talk to. I would teach you my language, and we could together remake a small piece of everything that I loved and lost. When you said your first words to me, in Chinese that had the same accent as my mother and me, I cried for hours. When I made the first zhezhi animals for you, and you laughed, I felt there were no worries in the world.
You grew up a little, and now you could even help your father and I talk to each other. I was really at home now. I finally found a good life. I wished my parents could be here, so that I could cook for them, and give them a good life too. But my parents were no longer around. You know what the Chinese think is the saddest feeling in the world? It's for a child to finally grow the desire to take care of his parents, only to realize that they were long gone.
Son, I know that you do not like your Chinese eyes, which are my eyes. I know that you do not like your Chinese hair, which is my hair. But can you understand how much joy your very existence brought to me? And can you understand how it felt when you stopped talking to me and won't let me talk to you in Chinese? I felt I was losing everything all over again.
Why won't you talk to me, son? The pain makes it hard to write.
#
The young woman handed the paper back to me. I could not bear to look into her face.
Without looking up, I asked for her help in tracing out the character for ai on the paper below Mom's letter. I wrote the character again and again on the paper, intertwining my pen strokes with her words.
The young woman reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. Then she got up and left, leaving me alone with my mother.
Following the creases, I refolded the paper back into Laohu. I cradled him in the crook of my arm, and as he purred, we began the walk home.
Copyright (c) 2011 Ken Liu, first published in THE MAGAZINE OF FANTASY & SCIENCE FICTION, Mar/Apr. 2011.
This is True.
“How to Tell a True War Story” (1990)
Tim O’Brien
Source:Meetup.com
This is true.
I had a buddy in Vietnam. His name was Bob Kiley, but everybody called him Rat.
A friend of his gets killed, so about a week later Rat sits down and writes a letter to the guy's sister. Rat tells her what a great brother she had, how strack [militarily proper] the guy was, a number one pal and comrade. A real soldier's soldier, Rat says. Then he tells a few stories to make the point, how her brother would always volunteer for stuff nobody else would volunteer for in a million years, dangerous stuff, like doing recon or going out on these really badass night patrols. Stainless steel balls, Rat tells her. The guy was a little crazy, for sure, but crazy in a good way, a real daredevil, because he liked the challenge of it, he liked testing himself, just man against gook. A great, great guy, Rat says.
Anyway, it's a terrific letter, very personal and touching. Rat almost bawls writing it. He gets all teary telling about the good times they had together, how her brother made the war seem almost fun, always raising hell and lighting up villes and bringing smoke to bear every which way. A great sense of humour, too. Like the time at this river when he went fishing with a whole damn crate of hand grenades. Probably the funniest thing in world history, Rat says, all that gore, about twenty zillion dead gook fish. Her brother, he had the right attitude. He knew how to have a good time. On Halloween, this real hot spooky night, the dude paints up his body all different colors and puts on this weird mask and goes out on ambush almost stark naked, just boots and balls and an M-16. A tremendous human being, Rat says, pretty nutso at times, but you could trust him with your life.
And then the letter gets very sad and serious. Rat pours his heart out. He said he loved the guy. He says the guy was his best friend in the world. They were like soul mates, he says, like twins or something, they had a whole lot in common. He tells the guy's sister he'll look her up when the war's over.
So what happens?
Rat mails the letter. He waits two months. The dumb cooze never writes back.
A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behaviour, nor restrain men from doing the things they have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitiude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil. Listen to Rat Kiley. "Cooze," he says. He does not say "bitch." He certainly does not say woman, or girl. He says "cooze." Then he spits and stares. He's nineteen years old - it's too much for him - so he looks at you with those big gentle killer eyes and says "cooze," because his friend is dead, and because it's so incredibly sad and true: she never wrote back.
You can tell a true war story if it embarrasses you. If you don't care for obscenity, you don't care for the truth; if you don't care for the truth, watch how you vote. Send guys to war, they come home talking dirty.
Listen to Rat: "Jesus Christ, man, I write this beautiful fucking letter, I slave over it, and what happens? The dumb cooze never writes back."
The dead guy's name was Curt Lemon. What happened was, we crossed a muddy river and marched west into the mountains, and on the third day we took a break along a trail junction in deep jungle. Right away, Lemon and Rat Kiley start goofing off. They didn't understand the spookiness. They were kids, they just didn't know. A nature hike, they thought, not even a war, so they went off into the shade of some giant trees - quadruple canopy, no sunlight at all - and they were giggling and calling each other motherfucker and playing a silly game they'd invented. The game involved smoke grenades, which were harmless unless you did stupid things, and what they did was pull out the pin and stand a few feet apart and play catch under the shade of those huge trees. Whoever chickened out was a motherfucker. And if nobody chickened out, the grenade would make a light popping sound and they'd be covered with smoke and they'd laugh and dance around and then do it again.
It's all exactly true.
It happened nearly twenty years ago, but I still remember that trail junction and the giant trees and a soft dripping sound somewhere beyond the trees. I remember the smell of moss. Up in the canopy there were tiny white blossoms, but no sunlight at all, and I remember the shadows spreading out under the trees where Lemon and Rat Kiley were playing catch with smoke grenades. Mitchell Sanders sat flipping his yo-yo. Norman Bowker and Kiowa and Dave Jensen were dozing, or half-dozing, and all around us were those ragged green mountains.
Except for the laughter, things were quiet.
At one point, I remember, Mitchell Sanders turned and looked at me, not quite nodding, then after a while he rolled up his yo-yo and moved away.
It's hard to tell what happened next.
They were just goofing. There was a noise, I suppose, which must've been the detonator, so I glanced behind me and watched Lemon step from the shade into bright sunlight. His face was suddenly brown and shining. A handsome kid, really. Sharp grey eyes, lean and narrow-waisted, and when he died it was almost beautiful, the way the sunlight came around him and lifted him up and sucked him high into a tree full of moss and vines and white blossoms.
In many cases, a true war story cannot be believed. If you believe it, be skeptical. It's a question of credibility. Often the crazy stuff is true and the normal stuff isn't normal because the normal stuff is necessary to make you believe the incredible craziness.
In other cases you can't even tell a true war story. Sometimes it's just beyond telling.
I heard this one, for example, from Mitchell Sanders. It was near dusk and we were sitting at my foxhole along a wide, muddy river north of Quang Ngai. I remember how peaceful the twilight was. A deep pinkish red spilled out on the river, which moved without a sound, and in the morning we would cross the river and march west into the mountains. The occasion was right for a good story.
"God's truth," Mitchell Sanders said. "A six-man patrol goes up into the mountains on a basic Listening Post operation. The idea's to spend a week up there, just lie low and listen for enemy movement. They've got a radio along, so if they hear anything suspicious - anything- they're supposed to call in artillery or gunships, whatever it takes. Otherwise they keep strict field discipline. Absolute silence. They just listen."
He glanced at me to make sure I had the scenario. He was playing with his yo-yo, making it dance with short, tight little strokes of the wrist.
His face was blank in the dusk.
"We're talking hardass LP. These six guys, they don't say boo for a solid week. They don't got tongues. All ears."
"Right," I said.
"Understand me?"
"Invisible."
Sanders nodded.
"Affirm," he said. "Invisible. So what happens is, these guys get themselves deep in the bush, all camouflaged up, and they lie down and wait and that's all they do, nothing else, they lie there for seven straight days and they just listen. And man, I'll tell you - its spooky. This is mountains. You don't know spooky till you been there. Jungle, sort of, except it's way up in the clouds and there's always this fog - like rain, except its not raining - everything's all wet and swirly and tangled up and you can't see jack, you can't find your own pecker to piss with. Like you don't even have a body. Serious spooky. You just go with the vapors - the fog sort of takes you in - And the sounds, man. The sounds carry forever. You hear shit nobody would ever hear."
Sanders was quiet for a second, just working the yo-yo, then he smiled at me. "So, after a couple days the guys start hearing this real soft, kind of whacked-out music. Weird echoes and stuff, but it's not a radio, it's this strange gook music that comes right out of the rocks. Far away, sort of, but right up close, too. They try to ignore it. But it's a listening post, right? So they listen. And every night they keep hearing this crazyass gook concert. All kinds of chimes and xylophones. I mean, this is wilderness - no way, it can't be real - but there it is, like the mountains are tuned in to Radio Fucking Hanoi. Naturally, they get nervous. One guy sticks Juicy Fruit in his ears. Another guy almost flips. Thing is, though, they can't report music. They can't get on the horn and call back to base and say, 'Hey, listen, we need some firepower, we got to blow away this weirdo gook rock band.' They can't do that. It wouldn't go down. So they lie there in the fog and keep their mouths shut. And what makes it extra bad, see, is the poor dudes can't horse around like normal. Can't joke it away. Can't even talk to each other except maybe in whispers, all hush-hush, and that just revs up the willies. All they do is listen."
Again there was some silence as Mitchell Sanders looked out on the river. The dark was coming on hard now, and off to the west I could see the mountains rising in silhouette, all the mysteries and unknowns.
"This next part," Sanders said quietly, "you won't believe."
"Probably not," I said.
"You won't. And you know why?"
"Why?"
He gave me a tired smile. "Because it happened. Because every word is absolutely dead-on true."
Sanders made a little sound in his throat, like a sigh, as if to say he didn't care if I believed him or not. But he did care. He wanted me to believe, I could tell. He seemed sad, in a way.
"These six guys, they're pretty fried by now, and one night they start hearing voices. Like a cocktail party. That's what it sounds like, this big swank gook cocktail party somewhere out there in the fog. Music and chitchat and stuff. It's crazy, I know, but they hear the champagne corks. They hear the actual martini glasses. Real hoity-toity, all very civilized, except this isn't civilization. This is Nam."
"Anyway, the guys try to be cool. They just lie there and groove, but after a while they start hearing - you won't believe this - they hear chamber music. They hear violins and shit. They hear this terrific mama-san soprano. Then after a while they hear gook opera and a glee club and the Haiphong Boys Choir and a barbershop quartet and all kinds of weird chanting and Buddha-Buddha stuff. The whole time, in the background, there's still that cocktail party going on. All these different voices. Not human voices, though. Because it's the mountains. Follow me? The rock - it's talking. And the fog, too, and the grass and the goddamn mongooses. Everything talks. The trees talk politics, the monkeys talk religion. The whole country. Vietnam, the place talks."
"The guys can't cope. They lose it. They get on the radio and report enemy movement - a whole army, they say - and they order up the fire power. They get arty [artillery] and gunships. They call in air strikes. And I'll tell you, they fuckin' crash the cocktail party. All night long, they just smoke those mountains. They make jungle juice. They blow away trees and glee clubs and whatever else there is to blow away. Scorch time. They walk napalm up and down the ridges. They bring in the Cobras and F4s, they use Willy-Peter [white phosphorus incendiary] and HE [high explosive] and incendiaries. It's all fire. They make those mountains burn."
"Around dawn, things finally get quiet. Like you never even heard quiet before. One of those real thick, real misty days - just clouds and fog, they're off in this special zone - and the mountains are absolutely dead-flat silent. Like Brigadoon - pure vapor, you know? Everything's all sucked up inside the fog. Not a single sound, except they still hear it."
"So they pack up and start humping. They head down the mountain, back to base camp, and when they get there they don't say diddly. They don't talk. Not a word, like they're deaf and dumb. Later on this fat bird colonel comes up and asks what the hell happened out there. What'd they hear? Why all the ordnance? The man's ragged out, he gets down tight on their case. I mean, they spent six trillion dollars on firepower, and this fatass colonel wants answers, he wants to know what the fuckin' story is."
"But the guys don't say zip. They just look at him for a while, sort of funnylike, sort of amazed, and the whole war is right there in that stare. It says everything you can't ever say. Its says, man, you got wax in your ears. It says, poor bastard, you'll never know - wrong frequency - you don't even want to hear this. Then they all salute the fucker and walk away, because certain stories you don't ever tell."
You can tell a true war story by the way it never seems to end. Not then, not ever. Not when Mitchell Sanders stood up and moved off into the dark.
It all happened.
Even now I remember that yo-yo. In a way, I suppose, you had to be there, you had to hear it, but I could tell how desperately Sanders wanted me to believe him, his frustration at not quite getting the details right, not quite pinning down the final and definitive truth.
And I remember sitting at my foxhole that night, watching the shadows of Quang Ngai, thinking about the coming day and how we would cross the river and march west into the mountains, all the ways I might die, all the things I did not understand.
Late in the night Mitchell Sanders touched my shoulder.
"Just came to me," he whispered. "The moral, I mean. Nobody listens. Nobody hears nothing. Like that fatass colonel. The politicians, all the civilian types, what they need is to go out on LP. The vapors, man. Trees and rocks - you got to listen to your enemy."
And then again, in the morning, Sanders came up to me. The platoon was preparing to move out, checking weapons, going through all the little rituals that preceded a day's march. Already the lead squad had crossed the river and was filing off toward the west.
"I got a confession to make," Sanders said. "Last night, man, I had to make up a few things."
"I know that."
"The glee club. There wasn't any glee club."
"Right."
"No opera."
"Forget it, I understand."
"Yeah, but listen, its still true. Those six guys, they heard wicked sound out there. They heard sound you just plain won't believe."
Sanders pulled on his rucksack, closed his eyes for a moment, then almost smiled at me.
I knew what was coming but I beat him to it.
"All right," I said, "what's the moral?"
"Forget it."
"No, go ahead."
For a long while he was quiet, looking away, and the silence kept stretching out until it was almost embarrassing. Then he shrugged and gave me a stare that lasted all day.
"Hear that quiet, man?" he said. "There's your moral."
In a true war story, if there's a moral at all, it's like the thread that makes the cloth. You can't tease it out. You can't extract the meaning without unraveling the deeper meaning. And in the end, really, there's nothing much to say about a true war story, except maybe "Oh."
True war stories do not generalize. They do not indulge in abstraction or analysis.
For example: War is hell. As a moral declaration the old truism seems perfectly true, and yet because it abstracts, because it generalizes, I can't believe it with my stomach. Nothing turns inside.
It comes down to my gut instinct. A true war story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe.
This one does if for me. I've told it before - many times, many versions - but here's what actually happened.
We crossed the river and marched west into the mountains. On the third day, Curt Lemon stepped on a booby-trapped 105 round. He was playing catch with Rat Kiley, laughing, and then he was dead. The trees were thick, it took nearly an hour to cut an LZ [Landing Zone] for the dustoff [helicopter extrication of wounded].
Later, higher in the mountains, we came across a baby VC [Viet Cong - Communist militia] water buffalo. What it was doing there I don't know - no farms or paddies - but we chased it down and got a rope around it and led it along to a deserted village where we set up for the night. After supper Rat Kiley went over and stroked its nose.
He opened up a can of C rations, pork and beans, but the baby water buffalo wasn't interested.
Rat shrugged.
He stepped back and shot it through the right front knee. The animal did not make a sound. It went down hard, then got up again, and Rat took careful aim and shot off an ear. He shot it in the hindquarters and in the little hump at its back. He shot it twice in the flanks. It wasn't to kill; it was just to hurt. He put the rifle muzzle up against the mouth and shot the mouth away. Nobody said much. The whole platoon stood there watching, feeling all sorts of things, but there wasn't a great deal of pity for the baby water buffalo. Lemon was dead. Rat Kiley had lost his best friend in the whole world. Later in the week he would write a long personal letter to the guy's sister, who would not write back, but for now it was a question of pain. He shot off the tail. He shot off chunks of meat below the ribs. All around us was the smell of smoke and filth, and deep greenery, and the evening was humid and hot. Rat went to automatic. He shot randomly, almost casually, quick little spurts in the belly and the butt. Then he reloaded, squatted down, and shot it in the front left knee. Again the animal fell hard and tried to get up, but this time it couldn't quite make it. It wobbled and fell down sideways. Rat shot it in the nose. He bent forward and whispered something, as if talking to a pet, then he shot it in the throat. All the while the baby buffalo was silent, or almost silent, just a light bubbling sound where the nose had been. It lay very still. Nothing moved except the eyes, which were enormous, the pupils shiny black and dumb.
Rat Kiley was crying. He tried to say something, but then cradled his rifle and went off by himself.
The rest of us stood in a ragged circle around the baby buffalo. For a time no one spoke. We had witnessed something essential, something brand-new and profound, a piece of the world so startling there was not yet a name for it.
Somebody kicked the baby buffalo.
It was still alive, though just barely, just in the eyes.
"Amazing," Dave Jensen said. "My whole life, I never seen anything like it."
"Never?"
"Not hardly. Not once."
Kiowa and Mitchell Sanders picked up the baby buffalo. They hauled it across the open square, hoisted it up, and dumped it in the village well.
Afterward, we sat waiting for Rat to get himself together.
"Amazing," Dave Jensen kept saying.
"For sure."
"A new wrinkle. I never seen it before."
Mitchell Sanders took out his yo-yo.
"Well, that's Nam," he said. "Garden of Evil. Over here, man, every sin's real fresh and original."
How do you generalize?
War is hell, but that's not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.
The truths are contradictory. It can be argued, for instance, that war is grotesque. But in truth war is also beauty. For all its horror, you can't help but gape at the awful majesty of combat. You stare out at tracer rounds unwinding through the dark like brilliant red ribbons. You crouch in ambush as a cool, impassive moon rises over the nighttime paddies. You admire the fluid symmetries of troops on the move, the harmonies of sound and shape and proportion, the great sheets of metal-fire streaming down from a gunship, the illumination rounds, the white phosphorus, the purply black glow of napalm, the rocket's red glare. It's not pretty, exactly. It's astonishing. It fills the eye. It commands you. You hate it, yes, but your eyes do not. Like a killer forest fire, like cancer under a microscope, any battle or bombing raid or artillery barrage has the aesthetic purity of absolute moral indifference - a powerful, implacable beauty - and a true war story will tell the truth about this, though the truth is ugly.
To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. At its core, perhaps, war is just another name for death, and yet any soldier will tell you, if he tells the truth, that proximity to death brings with it a corresponding proximity to life. After a fire fight, there is always the immense pleasure of aliveness. The trees are alive. The grass, the soil, everything. All around you things are purely living, and you among them, and the aliveness makes you tremble. You feel an intense, out-of-the-skin awareness of your living self - your truest self, the human being you want to be and then become by the force of wanting it. In the midst of evil you want to be a good man. You want decency. You want justice and courtesy and human concord, things you never knew you wanted. There is a kind of largeness to it; a kind of godliness. Though it's odd, you're never more alive than when you're almost dead. You recognize what's valuable. Freshly, as if for the first time, you love what's best in yourself and in the world, all that might be lost. At the hour of dusk you sit at your foxhole and look out on a wide river turning pinkish red, and at the mountains beyond, and although in the morning you must cross the river and go into the mountains and do terrible things and maybe even die, even so, you find yourself studying the fine colors on the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, but now is not.
Mitchell Sanders was right. For the common soldier, at least, war has the feel - the spiritual texture - of a great ghostly fog, thick and permanent. There is no clarity. Everything swirls. The old rules are no longer binding, the old truths no longer true. Right spills over into wrong. Order blends into chaos, love into hate, ugliness into beauty, law into anarchy, civility into savagery. The vapors suck you in. You can't tell where you are, or why you're there, and the only certainty is the absolute ambiguity.
In war you lose your sense of the definite, hence your sense of truth itself, and therefore it's safe to say that in a true war story nothing much is ever very true.
Often in a true war story there is not even a point, or else the point doesn't hit you until twenty years later, in your sleep, and you wake up and shake your wife and start telling the story to her, except when you get to the end you've forgotten the point again. And then for a long time you lie there watching the story happen in your head. You listen to your wife's breathing. The war's over. You close your eyes. You smile and think, Christ, what's the point?
This one wakes me up.
In the mountains that day, I watched Lemon turn sideways. He laughed and said something to Rat Kiley. Then he took a peculiar half-step, moving from shade into bright sunlight, and the booby-trapped 105 round blew him into a tree. The parts were just hanging there, so Norman Bowker and I were ordered to shinny up and peel him off. I remember the white bone of an arm. I remember pieces of skin and something wet and yellow that must've been the intestines. The gore was horrible, and stays with me, but what wakes me up twenty years later is Norman Bowker singing "Lemon Tree" as we threw down the parts.
You can tell a true war story by the questions you ask. Somebody tells a story, let's say, and afterward you ask, "Is it true?" and if the answer matters, you've got your answer.
For example, we've all heard this one: Four guys go down a trail. A grenade sails out. One guy jumps on it and takes the blast and saves three of his buddies.
Is it true?
The answer matters.
You'd feel cheated if it never happened. Without the grounding reality, it's just a trite bit of puffery, pure Hollywood, untrue in the way all such stories are untrue. Yet even if it did happen - and maybe it did, anything's possible - even then you know it can't be true, because a true war story does not depend upon that kind of truth. Happeningness is irrelevent. A thing may happen and be a total lie; another thing may not happen and be truer than the truth. For example: Four guys go down a trail. A grenade sails out. One guy jumps on it and takes the blast, but it's a killer grenade and everybody dies anyway. Before they die, though, one of the dead guys says, "The fuck you do THAT for?" and the jumper says, "Story of my life, man," and the other guy starts to smile but he's dead.
That's a true story that never happened.
Twenty years later, I can still see the sunlight on Lemon's face. I can see him turning, looking back at Rat Kiley, then he laughed and took that curious half-step from shade into sunlight, his face suddenly brown and shining, and when his foot touched down, in that instant, he must've thought it was the sunlight that was killing him. It was not the sunlight. It was a rigged 105 round. But if I could ever get the story right, how the sun seemed to gather around him and pick him up and lift him into a tree, if I could somehow recreate the fatal whiteness of that light, the quick glare, the obvious cause and effect, then you would believe the last thing Lemon believed, which for him must've been the final truth.
Now and then, when I tell this story, someone will come up to me afterward and say she liked it. It's always a woman. Usually it's an older woman of kindly temperament and humane politics. She'll explain that as a rule she hates war stories, she can't understand why people want to wallow in blood and gore. But this one she liked. Sometimes, even, there are little tears. What I should do, she'll say, is put it all behind me. Find new stories to tell.
I won't say it but I'll think it.
I'll picture Rat Kiley's face, his grief, and I'll think, you dumb cooze. Because she wasn't listening.
It wasn't a war story. It was a love story. It was a ghost story.
But you can't say that. All you can do is tell it one more time, patiently, adding and subtracting, making up a few things to get at the real truth. No Mitchell Sanders, you tell her. No Lemon, no Rat Kiley. And it didn't happen in the mountains, it happened in this little village on the Batangan Peninsula, and it was raining like crazy, and one night a guy named Stink Harris woke up screaming with a leech on his tongue. You can tell a true war story if you just keep on telling it.
In the end, of course, a true war story is never about war. It's about the special way that dawn spreads out on a river when you know you must cross the river and march into the mountains and do things you are afraid to do. It's about love and memory. It's about sorrow. It's about sisters who never write back and people who never listen.
The World the Children Made
The Veldt
Ray Bradbury
Source:veddma.com Fun fact:Stephen Colbert read "The Veldt" for the NPR radio program Selected Shorts. I really want to hear that...anyone have a recording? There might be a trigger warning:death. Not sure really. _______________________________________________________________________________
"George, I wish you'd look at the nursery." "What's wrong with it?" "I don't know." "Well, then." "I just want you to look at it, is all, or call a psychologist in to look at it." "What would a psychologist want with a nursery?" "You know very well what he'd want." His wife paused in the middle of the kitchen and watched the stove busy humming to itself, making supper for four.
"It's just that the nursery is different now than it was." "All right, let's have a look." They walked down the hall of their soundproofed Happylife Home, which had cost them thirty thousand dollars installed, this house which clothed and fed and rocked them to sleep and played and sang and was good to them. Their approach sensitized a switch somewhere and the nursery light flicked on when they came within ten feet of it. Similarly, behind them, in the halls, lights went on and off as they left them behind, with a soft automaticity. "Well," said George Hadley. They stood on the thatched floor of the nursery. It was forty feet across by forty feet long and thirty feet high; it had cost half again as much as the rest of the house. "But nothing's too good for our children," George had said. The nursery was silent. It was empty as a jungle glade at hot high noon. The walls were blank and two dimensional. Now, as George and Lydia Hadley stood in the center of the room, the walls began to purr and recede into crystalline distance, it seemed, and presently an African veldt appeared, in three dimensions, on all sides, in color reproduced to the final pebble and bit of straw. The ceiling above them became a deep sky with a hot yellow sun. George Hadley felt the perspiration start on his brow. "Let's get out of this sun," he said. "This is a little too real. But I don't see anything wrong." "Wait a moment, you'll see," said his wife. Now the hidden odorophonics were beginning to blow a wind of odor at the two people in the middle of the baked veldtland. The hot straw smell of lion grass, the cool green smell of the hidden water hole, the great rusty smell of animals, the smell of dust like a red paprika in the hot air. And now the sounds: the thump of distant antelope feet on grassy sod, the papery rustling of vultures. A shadow passed through the sky. The shadow flickered on George Hadley's upturned, sweating face. "Filthy creatures," he heard his wife say. "The vultures." "You see, there are the lions, far over, that way. Now they're on their way to the water hole. They've just been eating," said Lydia. "I don't know what." "Some animal." George Hadley put his hand up to shield off the burning light from his squinted eyes. "A zebra or a baby giraffe, maybe." "Are you sure?" His wife sounded peculiarly tense. "No, it's a little late to be sure," be said, amused. "Nothing over there I can see but cleaned bone, and the vultures dropping for what's left." "Did you bear that scream?" she asked. 'No." "About a minute ago?" "Sorry, no." The lions were coming. And again George Hadley was filled with admiration for the mechanical genius who had conceived this room. A miracle of efficiency selling for an absurdly low price. Every home should have one. Oh, occasionally they frightened you with their clinical accuracy, they startled you, gave you a twinge, but most of the time what fun for everyone, not only your own son and daughter, but for yourself when you felt like a quick jaunt to a foreign land, a quick change of scenery. Well, here it was! And here were the lions now, fifteen feet away, so real, so feverishly and startlingly real that you could feel the prickling fur on your hand, and your mouth was stuffed with the dusty upholstery smell of their heated pelts, and the yellow of them was in your eyes like the yellow of an exquisite French tapestry, the yellows of lions and summer grass, and the sound of the matted lion lungs exhaling on the silent noontide, and the smell of meat from the panting, dripping mouths. The lions stood looking at George and Lydia Hadley with terrible green-yellow eyes. "Watch out!" screamed Lydia. The lions came running at them. Lydia bolted and ran. Instinctively, George sprang after her. Outside, in the hall, with the door slammed he was laughing and she was crying, and they both stood appalled at the other's reaction. "George!" "Lydia! Oh, my dear poor sweet Lydia!" "They almost got us!" "Walls, Lydia, remember; crystal walls, that's all they are. Oh, they look real, I must admit - Africa in your parlor - but it's all dimensional, superreactionary, supersensitive color film and mental tape film behind glass screens. It's all odorophonics and sonics, Lydia. Here's my handkerchief." "I'm afraid." She came to him and put her body against him and cried steadily. "Did you see? Did you feel? It's too real." "Now, Lydia..." "You've got to tell Wendy and Peter not to read any more on Africa." "Of course - of course." He patted her. "Promise?" "Sure." "And lock the nursery for a few days until I get my nerves settled." "You know how difficult Peter is about that. When I punished him a month ago by locking the nursery for even a few hours - the tantrum be threw! And Wendy too. They live for the nursery." "It's got to be locked, that's all there is to it." "All right." Reluctantly he locked the huge door. "You've been working too hard. You need a rest." "I don't know - I don't know," she said, blowing her nose, sitting down in a chair that immediately began to rock and comfort her. "Maybe I don't have enough to do. Maybe I have time to think too much. Why don't we shut the whole house off for a few days and take a vacation?" "You mean you want to fry my eggs for me?" "Yes." She nodded. "And dam my socks?" "Yes." A frantic, watery-eyed nodding. "And sweep the house?" "Yes, yes - oh, yes!'' "But I thought that's why we bought this house, so we wouldn't have to do anything?" "That's just it. I feel like I don't belong here. The house is wife and mother now, and nursemaid. Can I compete with an African veldt? Can I give a bath and scrub the children as efficiently or quickly as the automatic scrub bath can? I cannot. And it isn't just me. It's you. You've been awfully nervous lately." "I suppose I have been smoking too much." "You look as if you didn't know what to do with yourself in this house, either. You smoke a little more every morning and drink a little more every afternoon and need a little more sedative every night. You're beginning to feel unnecessary too." "Am I?" He paused and tried to feel into himself to see what was really there. "Oh, George!" She looked beyond him, at the nursery door. "Those lions can't get out of there, can they?" He looked at the door and saw it tremble as if something had jumped against it from the other side. "Of course not," he said. At dinner they ate alone, for Wendy and Peter were at a special plastic carnival across town and bad televised home to say they'd be late, to go ahead eating. So George Hadley, bemused, sat watching the dining-room table produce warm dishes of food from its mechanical interior. "We forgot the ketchup," he said. "Sorry," said a small voice within the table, and ketchup appeared. As for the nursery, thought George Hadley, it won't hurt for the children to be locked out of it awhile. Too much of anything isn't good for anyone. And it was clearly indicated that the children had been spending a little too much time on Africa. That sun. He could feel it on his neck, still, like a hot paw. And the lions. And the smell of blood. Remarkable how the nursery caught the telepathic emanations of the children's minds and created life to fill their every desire. The children thought lions, and there were lions. The children thought zebras, and there were zebras. Sun - sun. Giraffes - giraffes. Death and death. That last. He chewed tastelessly on the meat that the table bad cut for him. Death thoughts. They were awfully young, Wendy and Peter, for death thoughts. Or, no, you were never too young, really. Long before you knew what death was you were wishing it on someone else. When you were two years old you were shooting people with cap pistols. But this - the long, hot African veldt-the awful death in the jaws of a lion. And repeated again and again. "Where are you going?" He didn't answer Lydia. Preoccupied, be let the lights glow softly on ahead of him, extinguish behind him as he padded to the nursery door. He listened against it. Far away, a lion roared. He unlocked the door and opened it. Just before he stepped inside, he heard a faraway scream. And then another roar from the lions, which subsided quickly. He stepped into Africa. How many times in the last year had he opened this door and found Wonderland, Alice, the Mock Turtle, or Aladdin and his Magical Lamp, or Jack Pumpkinhead of Oz, or Dr. Doolittle, or the cow jumping over a very real-appearing moon-all the delightful contraptions of a make-believe world. How often had he seen Pegasus flying in the sky ceiling, or seen fountains of red fireworks, or heard angel voices singing. But now, is yellow hot Africa, this bake oven with murder in the heat. Perhaps Lydia was right. Perhaps they needed a little vacation from the fantasy which was growing a bit too real for ten-year-old children. It was all right to exercise one's mind with gymnastic fantasies, but when the lively child mind settled on one pattern... ? It seemed that, at a distance, for the past month, he had heard lions roaring, and smelled their strong odor seeping as far away as his study door. But, being busy, he had paid it no attention. George Hadley stood on the African grassland alone. The lions looked up from their feeding, watching him. The only flaw to the illusion was the open door through which he could see his wife, far down the dark hall, like a framed picture, eating her dinner abstractedly. "Go away," he said to the lions. They did not go. He knew the principle of the room exactly. You sent out your thoughts. Whatever you thought would appear. "Let's have Aladdin and his lamp," he snapped. The veldtland remained; the lions remained. "Come on, room! I demand Aladin!" he said. Nothing happened. The lions mumbled in their baked pelts. "Aladin!" He went back to dinner. "The fool room's out of order," he said. "It won't respond." "Or--" "Or what?" "Or it can't respond," said Lydia, "because the children have thought about Africa and lions and killing so many days that the room's in a rut." "Could be." "Or Peter's set it to remain that way." "Set it?" "He may have got into the machinery and fixed something." "Peter doesn't know machinery." "He's a wise one for ten. That I.Q. of his -" "Nevertheless -" "Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad." The Hadleys turned. Wendy and Peter were coming in the front door, cheeks like peppermint candy, eyes like bright blue agate marbles, a smell of ozone on their jumpers from their trip in the helicopter. "You're just in time for supper," said both parents. "We're full of strawberry ice cream and hot dogs," said the children, holding hands. "But we'll sit and watch." "Yes, come tell us about the nursery," said George Hadley. The brother and sister blinked at him and then at each other. "Nursery?" "All about Africa and everything," said the father with false joviality. "I don't understand," said Peter. "Your mother and I were just traveling through Africa with rod and reel; Tom Swift and his Electric Lion," said George Hadley. "There's no Africa in the nursery," said Peter simply. "Oh, come now, Peter. We know better." "I don't remember any Africa," said Peter to Wendy. "Do you?" "No." "Run see and come tell." She obeyed "Wendy, come back here!" said George Hadley, but she was gone. The house lights followed her like a flock of fireflies. Too late, he realized he had forgotten to lock the nursery door after his last inspection. "Wendy'll look and come tell us," said Peter. "She doesn't have to tell me. I've seen it." "I'm sure you're mistaken, Father." "I'm not, Peter. Come along now." But Wendy was back. "It's not Africa," she said breathlessly. "We'll see about this," said George Hadley, and they all walked down the hall together and opened the nursery door. There was a green, lovely forest, a lovely river, a purple mountain, high voices singing, and Rima, lovely and mysterious, lurking in the trees with colorful flights of butterflies, like animated bouquets, lingering in her long hair. The African veldtland was gone. The lions were gone. Only Rima was here now, singing a song so beautiful that it brought tears to your eyes. George Hadley looked in at the changed scene. "Go to bed," he said to the children. They opened their mouths. "You heard me," he said. They went off to the air closet, where a wind sucked them like brown leaves up the flue to their slumber rooms. George Hadley walked through the singing glade and picked up something that lay in the comer near where the lions had been. He walked slowly back to his wife. "What is that?" she asked. "An old wallet of mine," he said. He showed it to her. The smell of hot grass was on it and the smell of a lion. There were drops of saliva on it, it bad been chewed, and there were blood smears on both sides. He closed the nursery door and locked it, tight. In the middle of the night he was still awake and he knew his wife was awake. "Do you think Wendy changed it?" she said at last, in the dark room. "Of course." "Made it from a veldt into a forest and put Rima there instead of lions?" "Yes." "Why?" "I don't know. But it's staying locked until I find out." "How did your wallet get there?" "I don't know anything," he said, "except that I'm beginning to be sorry we bought that room for the children. If children are neurotic at all, a room like that -" "It's supposed to help them work off their neuroses in a healthful way." "I'm starting to wonder." He stared at the ceiling. "We've given the children everything they ever wanted. Is this our reward-secrecy, disobedience?" "Who was it said, 'Children are carpets, they should be stepped on occasionally'? We've never lifted a hand. They're insufferable - let's admit it. They come and go when they like; they treat us as if we were offspring. They're spoiled and we're spoiled." "They've been acting funny ever since you forbade them to take the rocket to New York a few months ago." "They're not old enough to do that alone, I explained." "Nevertheless, I've noticed they've been decidedly cool toward us since." "I think I'll have David McClean come tomorrow morning to have a look at Africa." "But it's not Africa now, it's Green Mansions country and Rima." "I have a feeling it'll be Africa again before then." A moment later they heard the screams. Two screams. Two people screaming from downstairs. And then a roar of lions. "Wendy and Peter aren't in their rooms," said his wife. He lay in his bed with his beating heart. "No," he said. "They've broken into the nursery." "Those screams - they sound familiar." "Do they?" "Yes, awfully." And although their beds tried very bard, the two adults couldn't be rocked to sleep for another hour. A smell of cats was in the night air. "Father?" said Peter. "Yes." Peter looked at his shoes. He never looked at his father any more, nor at his mother. "You aren't going to lock up the nursery for good, are you?" "That all depends." "On what?" snapped Peter. "On you and your sister. If you intersperse this Africa with a little variety - oh, Sweden perhaps, or Denmark or China -" "I thought we were free to play as we wished." "You are, within reasonable bounds." "What's wrong with Africa, Father?" "Oh, so now you admit you have been conjuring up Africa, do you?" "I wouldn't want the nursery locked up," said Peter coldly. "Ever." "Matter of fact, we're thinking of turning the whole house off for about a month. Live sort of a carefree one-for-all existence." "That sounds dreadful! Would I have to tie my own shoes instead of letting the shoe tier do it? And brush my own teeth and comb my hair and give myself a bath?" "It would be fun for a change, don't you think?" "No, it would be horrid. I didn't like it when you took out the picture painter last month." "That's because I wanted you to learn to paint all by yourself, son." "I don't want to do anything but look and listen and smell; what else is there to do?" "All right, go play in Africa." "Will you shut off the house sometime soon?" "We're considering it." "I don't think you'd better consider it any more, Father." "I won't have any threats from my son!" "Very well." And Peter strolled off to the nursery. "Am I on time?" said David McClean. "Breakfast?" asked George Hadley. "Thanks, had some. What's the trouble?" "David, you're a psychologist." "I should hope so." "Well, then, have a look at our nursery. You saw it a year ago when you dropped by; did you notice anything peculiar about it then?" "Can't say I did; the usual violences, a tendency toward a slight paranoia here or there, usual in children because they feel persecuted by parents constantly, but, oh, really nothing." They walked down the ball. "I locked the nursery up," explained the father, "and the children broke back into it during the night. I let them stay so they could form the patterns for you to see." There was a terrible screaming from the nursery. "There it is," said George Hadley. "See what you make of it." They walked in on the children without rapping. The screams had faded. The lions were feeding. "Run outside a moment, children," said George Hadley. "No, don't change the mental combination. Leave the walls as they are. Get!" With the children gone, the two men stood studying the lions clustered at a distance, eating with great relish whatever it was they had caught. "I wish I knew what it was," said George Hadley. "Sometimes I can almost see. Do you think if I brought high-powered binoculars here and -" David McClean laughed dryly. "Hardly." He turned to study all four walls. "How long has this been going on?" "A little over a month." "It certainly doesn't feel good." "I want facts, not feelings." "My dear George, a psychologist never saw a fact in his life. He only hears about feelings; vague things. This doesn't feel good, I tell you. Trust my hunches and my instincts. I have a nose for something bad. This is very bad. My advice to you is to have the whole damn room torn down and your children brought to me every day during the next year for treatment." "Is it that bad?" "I'm afraid so. One of the original uses of these nurseries was so that we could study the patterns left on the walls by the child's mind, study at our leisure, and help the child. In this case, however, the room has become a channel toward-destructive thoughts, instead of a release away from them." "Didn't you sense this before?" "I sensed only that you bad spoiled your children more than most. And now you're letting them down in some way. What way?" "I wouldn't let them go to New York." "What else?" "I've taken a few machines from the house and threatened them, a month ago, with closing up the nursery unless they did their homework. I did close it for a few days to show I meant business." "Ah, ha!" "Does that mean anything?" "Everything. Where before they had a Santa Claus now they have a Scrooge. Children prefer Santas. You've let this room and this house replace you and your wife in your children's affections. This room is their mother and father, far more important in their lives than their real parents. And now you come along and want to shut it off. No wonder there's hatred here. You can feel it coming out of the sky. Feel that sun. George, you'll have to change your life. Like too many others, you've built it around creature comforts. Why, you'd starve tomorrow if something went wrong in your kitchen. You wouldn't know bow to tap an egg. Nevertheless, turn everything off. Start new. It'll take time. But we'll make good children out of bad in a year, wait and see." "But won't the shock be too much for the children, shutting the room up abruptly, for good?" "I don't want them going any deeper into this, that's all." The lions were finished with their red feast. The lions were standing on the edge of the clearing watching the two men. "Now I'm feeling persecuted," said McClean. "Let's get out of here. I never have cared for these damned rooms. Make me nervous." "The lions look real, don't they?" said George Hadley. I don't suppose there's any way -" "What?" "- that they could become real?" "Not that I know." "Some flaw in the machinery, a tampering or something?" "No." They went to the door. "I don't imagine the room will like being turned off," said the father. "Nothing ever likes to die - even a room." "I wonder if it hates me for wanting to switch it off?" "Paranoia is thick around here today," said David McClean. "You can follow it like a spoor. Hello." He bent and picked up a bloody scarf. "This yours?" "No." George Hadley's face was rigid. "It belongs to Lydia." They went to the fuse box together and threw the switch that killed the nursery. The two children were in hysterics. They screamed and pranced and threw things. They yelled and sobbed and swore and jumped at the furniture. "You can't do that to the nursery, you can't!'' "Now, children." The children flung themselves onto a couch, weeping. "George," said Lydia Hadley, "turn on the nursery, just for a few moments. You can't be so abrupt." "No." "You can't be so cruel..." "Lydia, it's off, and it stays off. And the whole damn house dies as of here and now. The more I see of the mess we've put ourselves in, the more it sickens me. We've been contemplating our mechanical, electronic navels for too long. My God, how we need a breath of honest air!" And he marched about the house turning off the voice clocks, the stoves, the heaters, the shoe shiners, the shoe lacers, the body scrubbers and swabbers and massagers, and every other machine be could put his hand to. The house was full of dead bodies, it seemed. It felt like a mechanical cemetery. So silent. None of the humming hidden energy of machines waiting to function at the tap of a button. "Don't let them do it!" wailed Peter at the ceiling, as if he was talking to the house, the nursery. "Don't let Father kill everything." He turned to his father. "Oh, I hate you!" "Insults won't get you anywhere." "I wish you were dead!" "We were, for a long while. Now we're going to really start living. Instead of being handled and massaged, we're going to live." Wendy was still crying and Peter joined her again. "Just a moment, just one moment, just another moment of nursery," they wailed. "Oh, George," said the wife, "it can't hurt." "All right - all right, if they'll just shut up. One minute, mind you, and then off forever." "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" sang the children, smiling with wet faces. "And then we're going on a vacation. David McClean is coming back in half an hour to help us move out and get to the airport. I'm going to dress. You turn the nursery on for a minute, Lydia, just a minute, mind you." And the three of them went babbling off while he let himself be vacuumed upstairs through the air flue and set about dressing himself. A minute later Lydia appeared. "I'll be glad when we get away," she sighed. "Did you leave them in the nursery?" "I wanted to dress too. Oh, that horrid Africa. What can they see in it?" "Well, in five minutes we'll be on our way to Iowa. Lord, how did we ever get in this house? What prompted us to buy a nightmare?" "Pride, money, foolishness." "I think we'd better get downstairs before those kids get engrossed with those damned beasts again." Just then they heard the children calling, "Daddy, Mommy, come quick - quick!" They went downstairs in the air flue and ran down the hall. The children were nowhere in sight. "Wendy? Peter!" They ran into the nursery. The veldtland was empty save for the lions waiting, looking at them. "Peter, Wendy?" The door slammed. "Wendy, Peter!" George Hadley and his wife whirled and ran back to the door. "Open the door!" cried George Hadley, trying the knob. "Why, they've locked it from the outside! Peter!" He beat at the door. "Open up!" He heard Peter's voice outside, against the door. "Don't let them switch off the nursery and the house," he was saying. Mr. and Mrs. George Hadley beat at the door. "Now, don't be ridiculous, children. It's time to go. Mr. McClean'll be here in a minute and..." And then they heard the sounds. The lions on three sides of them, in the yellow veldt grass, padding through the dry straw, rumbling and roaring in their throats. The lions. Mr. Hadley looked at his wife and they turned and looked back at the beasts edging slowly forward crouching, tails stiff. Mr. and Mrs. Hadley screamed. And suddenly they realized why those other screams bad sounded familiar. "Well, here I am," said David McClean in the nursery doorway, "Oh, hello." He stared at the two children seated in the center of the open glade eating a little picnic lunch. Beyond them was the water hole and the yellow veldtland; above was the hot sun. He began to perspire. "Where are your father and mother?" The children looked up and smiled. "Oh, they'll be here directly." "Good, we must get going." At a distance Mr. McClean saw the lions fighting and clawing and then quieting down to feed in silence under the shady trees. He squinted at the lions with his hand tip to his eyes. Now the lions were done feeding. They moved to the water hole to drink. A shadow flickered over Mr. McClean's hot face. Many shadows flickered. The vultures were dropping down the blazing sky. "A cup of tea?" asked Wendy in the silence.
The Last Leaf
The Last Leaf O'Henry
Source:online-literature.com
Johnsy has fallen ill and is dying of pneumonia. She watches the leaves fall from a vine outside the window of her room, and decides that when the last leaf drops, she too will die. While Sue tries to tell her to stop thinking like that, Johnsy is determined to die when the last leaf falls.
(from wikipedia) I am rather tired, I apologize for borrowing the description.
Welcome to the office
Orientation
by Daniel Orozco Source:nomrad _______________________________
Orientation - by Daniel Orozco
Those are the offices and these are the cubicles. That’s my cubicle there, and this is your cubicle. This is your phone. Never answer your phone. Let the Voicemail System answer it. This is your Voicemail System Manual. There are no personal phone calls allowed. We do, however, allow for emergencies. If you must make an emergency phone call, ask your supervisor first. If you can’t find your supervisor, ask Phillip Spiers, who sits over there. He’ll check with Clarissa Nicks, who sits over there. If you make an emergency phone call without asking, you may be let go.
These are your IN and OUT boxes. All the forms in your IN box must be logged in by the date shown in the upper left-hand corner, initialed by you in the upper right-hand corner,and distributed to the Processing Analyst whose name is numerically coded in the lower left-hand corner. The lower right-hand corner is left blank. Here’s your Processing Analyst Numerical Code Index. And here’s your Forms Processing Procedures Manual.
You must pace your work. What do I mean? I’m glad you asked that. We pace our work according to the eight-hour workday. If you have twelve hours of work in your IN box, for
example, you must compress that work into the eight-hour day. If you have one hour of
work in your IN box, you must expand that work to fill the eight-hour day. That was a
good question. Feel free to ask questions. Ask too many questions, however, and you
may be let go.
That is our receptionist. She is a temp. We go through receptionists here. They quit with
alarming frequency. Be polite and civil to the temps. Learn their names, and invite them
to lunch occasionally. But don’t get close to them, as it only makes it more difficult when
they leave. And they always leave. You can be sure of that.
The men’s room is over there. The women’s room is over there. John LaFountaine, who
sits over there, uses the women’s room occasionally. He says it is accidental. We know
better, but we let it pass. John LeFountaine is harmless, his forays into the forbidden
territory of the women’s room simply a benign thrill, a faint blip on the dull flat line of his
life.
Russell Nash, who sits in the cubicle to your left, is in love with Amanda Pierce, who sits
in the cubicle to your right. They ride the same bus together after work. For Amanda
Pierce, it is just a tedious bus ride made less tedious by the idle nattering of Russell
Nash. But for Russell Nash, it is the highlight of his day. It is the highlight of his life.
Russell Nash has put on forty pounds, and grows fatter with each passing month, nibbling on chips and cookies while peeking glumly over the partitions at Amanda Pierce,
and gorging himself at home on cold pizza and ice cream while watching adult videos
on TV.
Amanda Pierce, in the cubicle to your right, has a six-year-old son named Jamie, who is
autistic. Her cubicle is plastered from top to bottom with the boy’s crayon artwork - sheet
after sheet of precisely drawn concentric circles and ellipses, in black and yellow. She
rotates them every other Friday. Be sure to comment on them.Amanda Pierce, who tolerates Russell Nash, is in love with Albert Bosch, whose office
is over there. Albert Bosch, who only dimly registers Amanda Pierce’s existence, has
eyes only for Ellie Tapper, who sits over there. Ellie Tapper, who hates Albert Bosch,
would walk through fire for Curtis Lance. But Curtis Lance hates Ellie Tapper. Isn’t the
world a funny place? Not in the ha-ha sense, of course.
Anika Bloom sits in that cubicle. Last year, while reviewing quarterly reports in a meeting with Barry Hacker, Anika Bloom’s left palm began to bleed. She fell into a trance,
stared into her hand, and told Barry Hacker when and how his wife would die. We
laughed it off. She was, after all, a new employee. But Barry Hacker’s wife is dead. So
unless you want to know exactly when and how you’ll die, never talk to Anika Bloom.
Colin Heavey sits in that cubicle over there. He was new once, just like you. We warned
him about Anika Bloom. But at last year’s Christmas Potluck, he felt sorry for her when
he saw that no one was talking to her. Colin Heavey bought her a drink. He hasn’t been
himself since. Colin Heavey is doomed. There’s nothing he can do about it, and we are
powerless to help him. Stay away from Colin Heavey. Never give any of your work to
him. If he asks to do something, tell him you have to check with me. If he asks again,
tell him I haven’t gotten back to you.
This is the Fire Exit. There are several on this floor, and they are marked accordingly.
We have a Floor Evacuation Review every three months, and an Escape Route Quiz
once a month. We have our Biannual fire Drill twice a year, and our Annual Earthquake
Drill once a year. These are precautions only. These things never happen.
For your information, we have a comprehensive health plan. Any catastrophic illness,
any unforeseen tragedy is completely covered. All dependents are completely covered.
Larry Bagdikian, who sits over there, has six daughters. If anything were to happen to
any of his girls, or to all of them, if all six were to simultaneously fall victim to illness or
injury - stricken witha hideous degenerative muscle disease or some rare toxic blood
disorder, sprayed with semiautomatic gunfire while on a class field trip, or attacked in
their bunk beds by some prowling nocturnal lunatic - if any of this were to pass, Larry’s
girls would all be taken care of. Larry Bagdikian would not have to pay one dime. He
would have nothing to worry about.
We also have a generous vacation and sick leave policy. We have an excellent disability
insurance plan. We have a stable and profitable pension fund. We get group discounts
for the symphony, and block seating at the ballpark. We get commuter ticket books for
the bridge. We have Direct Deposit. We are all members of Costco.
This is our kitchenette. And this, this is our Mr. Coffee. We have a coffee pool, into wich
we each pay two dollars a week for coffee, filters, sugar, and CoffeeMate. If you prefer
Cremora or half-and-half to CoffeeMate, there is a special pool for three dollars a week.
If you prefer Sweet’n Low to sugar, theree is a special pool for two-fifty a week. We do
not do decaf. You are allowed to join the coffee pool of your choice, but you are not allowed to touch the Mr. Coffee.This is the microwave oven. You are allowed to heat food in the microwave oven. You
are not, however, allowed to cook food in the microwave oven.
We get one hour for lunch. We also get one fifteen-minute break in the morning, and
one fifteen-minute break in the afternoon. Always take your breaks. If you skip a break,
it is gone forever. For your information, your break is a privelige, not a right. If you abuse
the break policy, we are authorized to rescind your breaks. Lunch, however, is a right,
not a privelige. If you abuse the lunch policy, our hands will be tied, and we will be
forced to look the other way. We will not enjoy that.
This is the refrigerator. You may put your lunch in it. Barry Hacker, who sits over there,
steals food from this refrigerator. His petty theft is an outlet for his grief. Last New Year’s
Eve, while kissing his wife, a blood vessel burst in her brain. Barry Hacker’s wife was
two months pregnant at the time, and lingered in a coma for half a year before dying. It
was a tragic loss for Barry Hacker. He hasn’t been himself since. Barry Hacker’s wife
was a beautiful woman. She was also completely covered. Barry Hacker did not have to
pay one dime But his dead wife haunts him. She haunts all of us. We have seen her,
reflected in the monitors of our computers, moving past our cubicles. We have seen the
dim shadow of her face in our photocopies. She pencils herself in in the receptionist’s
appointment book, with the notation: To see Barry Hacker. She has left messages in the
receptionist’s Voicemail box, messages garbled by the electronic chirrups and buzzes in
the phone line, her voice echoing from an immense distance within the ambient hum.
But the voice is hers. And beneath the voice, beneath the tidal whoosh of static and
hiss, the gurgling and crying of a baby can be heard.
In any case, if you bring a lunch, put a little something extra in the bag for Barry Hacker.
We have four Barrys in this office. Isn’t that a coincidence?
This is Matthew Payne’s office. He is our Unit Manager, and his door is always closed.
We have never seen him, and you will never see him. But he is there. You can be sure
of that. He is all around us.
This is the Custodian’s Closet. You have no business in the Custodian’s Closet.
And this, this is our Supplies Cabinet. If you need supplies, see Curtis Lance. He will log
you in on the Supplies Cabinet Authorization Log, then give you a Supplies Authorization Slip. Present your pink copy of the Supplies Authorization Slip to Ellie Tapper. She
will log you in on the Supplies Cabinet Key Log, then give you the key. Because the
Supplies Cabinet is located outside the Unit Manager’s office, you must be very quiet.
Gather your supplies quietly. The Supplies Cabinet is divided into four sections. Section
One contains letterhead stationery, blank paper and envelopes, memo and note pads,
and so on. Section Two contains pens and pencils and typewriter and printer ribbons,
and the like. In Section Three we have erasers, correction fluids, transparent tapes, glue
sticks, et cetera. And in Section Four we have paper clips and push pins and scissors
and razor blades. And here are the spare blades for the shredder. Do not touch the
shredder, which is located over there. The shredder is of no concern to you.Gwendolyn Stich sits in that office there. She is crazy about penguins, and collects penguin knickknacks: penguin posters and coffee mugs and stationery, penguin stuffed
animals, penguin jewelry, penguin sweaters and T-shirts and socks. She has a pair of
penguin fuzzy slippers she wears when working late at the office. She has a tape cassette of penguin sounds which she listens to for relaxation. Her favorite colors are black
and white. She has personalized license plates that read PEN GWEN. Every morning,
she passes through all the cubicles to wish each of us a good morning. She brings Danish on Wednesdays for Hump Day morning break, and doughnuts on Fridays for TGIF
afternoon break. She organizes the Annual Christmas Potluck, and is in charge of the
Birthday List. Gwendolyn Stich’s door is always open to all of us. She will always lend
an ear, and put in a good word for you; she will always give you a hand, or the shirt off
her back, or a shoulder to cry on. Because her door is always open, she hides and cries
in a stall in teh women’s room. And John LaFountaine - who, enthralled when a woman
enters, sits quietly in his stall with his knees to his chest - John LaFountaine has heard
her vomiting in there. We have come upon Gwendolyn Stich huddled in the stairwell,
shivering in the updraft, sipping a Diet Mr. Pibb and hugging her knees. She does not let
any of this interfere with her work. If it interfered with her work, she might have to be let
go.
Kevin Howard sits in that cubicle over there. He is a serial killer, the one they call the
Carpet Cutter, responsible for the mutilations across town. We’re not supposed to know
that, so do not let on. Don’t worry. His compulsion inflicts itself on strangers only, and
the routine established is elaborate and unwavering. The victim must be a white male, a
young adult no older than thirty, heavyset, with dark hair and eyes, and the like. The victim must be chosen at random before sunset, from a public place; the victim is followed
home, and must put up a struggle; et cetera. The carnage inflicted is precise: the angle
and direction of the incisions; the layering of skin and muscle tissue; the rearrangement
of visceral organs; and so on. Kevin Howard does not let any of this interfere with his
work. He is, in fact, our fastest typist. He types as if he were on fire. He has a secret
crush on Gwendoly Stich, and leaves a red-foil-wrapped Hershey’s Kiss on her desk
every afternoon. But he hates Anika Bloom, and keeps well away from her. In his presence, she has uncontrollable fits of shaking and trembling. Her left palm does not stop
bleeding.
In any case, when Kevin Howard gets caught, act surprised. Say that he seemed like a
nice person, a bit of a loner, perhaps, but always quiet and polite.
This is the photocopier room. And this, this is our view. It faces southwest. West is down
there, toward the water. North is back there. Because we are on the seventeenth floor,
we are afforded a magnificent view. Isn’t it beautiful? It overlooks the park, where the
tops of those trees are. You can see a segment of the bay between those two buildings
over there. You can see the sun set in the gap between those two buildings over there.
You can see this building reflected in the glass panels of that building across the way.
There. See? That’s you, waving. And look there. There’s Anika Bloom in the kitchenette,
waving back.Enjoy this view while photocopying. If you have problems with the photocopier, see
Russell Nash. If you have any questions, ask your supervisor. If you can’t find your supervisor, ask Phillip Spiers. He sits over there. He’ll check with Clarissa Nicks. She sits
over there. If you can’t find them, feel free to ask me. That’s my cubicle. I sit in there.
Murakami: 100% perfect.
ON SEEING THE 100% PERFECT GIRL ONE BEAUTIFUL APRIL MORNING
by Haruki Murakami
Lets try something:
Oil
By Myriah Lee This is a short story by a fellow tumblr user. First time I have done this, hopefully it turns out well. I think the story quite interesting. If you like it, you can read more at http://myriahleeww.blogspot.ca/. If anyone has any other suggestions for stories, feel free to send them by. Also feel free to offer praise and or constructive criticism! How else do you progress? He can’t even remember how long it had been since he slept through the night. Silently, at least, if he managed to stay asleep he would not stay settled. Tonight was no different from most nights, awoken by his own terror into a cold sweat, his heart beating hundreds of times by the minute. He propped himself up on his elbows and took in the surroundings of the dark room, the same as it had been when he closed his eyes hours before. All children had nightmares, but apparently none like this. His father wanted to send him to talk to someone, but he refused.Soon he started lying and said he didn’t have the night terrors anymore. No matter how the nightmares hurt him, and left him shaking, no matter how hard he tried he could not be rid of them. He yanked the covers from his sweating body to leave his room, something he avoided doing most nights. The fragrant smell of alcohol still lingered in the living room, his mother passed out from her excessive night drinking. She had been like that for as long as Jankin could remember She had been a nurse during the war, seen too much pain at once.Shortly after she met Nathan Smith, a judge. Three years after, Jankin was born It was sometime after that, that his mother began drinking heavily. He trudged past to the kitchen for water, opening the creaking cupboards for a glass.Just as he poured himself some water he heard the sound of a engine roaring down the road. He had forgotten about his father working late. Drinking the water fast, he scurried back to his bed. A slamming car door followed by footsteps in the hall. A round-headed man poked in the room, his father checking on him.Slowly he closed the door as he believed the boy was asleep. Jankin could hear his father in the living room, trying to put all the glasses and bottles away.
It was like this almost every night. Jankin can’t remember the last time his mother cooked a meal, went shopping, or kissed him goodnight. But there were the odd days his mother would say goodbye to him as he left for school. Giving him a pat on the head and watching him run down the path to the dirt road. His mother still loved him, she was just in a lot of pain herself, so Jankin believed. Sometimes though his mother would slap him,or yell at him. Usually he would just go to the park with his friend Sam when that happened, and when he came home, she would be on the couch again. His father was a strong man however. In his eyes at least. A judge, sentencing criminals away for horrible things. They deserved it and his father made sure they got it. At home his father was a very gentle man though, soft spoken and calm. He liked to read and do puzzles, Jankin liked to believe he was the most intelligent man in the country.
Once sure his father had retired to his own room, Jankin pulled out a notebook from his side table. Quickly scribbling down what he could recap of his nightmare. The things he saw and the sounds he heard; Tall trees, tipping over a path that gets darker. Leaves on the ground, and it’s wet. A girl stood at the beginning of the path, and her face was covered in blood. She had no eyes, and her jaw was broken, hanging from her face. She stood though, like a sign.
Don’t go down the path. Don’t follow them.
Don’t go.
Don’t follow them.
Don’t go down the path.
Don’t follow them.
He tried to remove the faces from his head. The faces that haunted him. Children, just like himself. Then, they walked down the forest path. It was almost as though they turned into monsters. They all became very thin, black, slick and oil like, skin looking to be in motion. Slowly dripping from sharp shoulders, oozing it’s way towards Jankin. Getting ready to pull him in. He shivered, it was just a dream he tried to tell himself. He finished scrawling down his notes and collapsed beside his bed. He laid on the cold floor for the night.
The morning sun shone through the cracks in his blinds. His bones aching from the night on the floor; but morning had finally come, and school was still out for summer. He crept down the hallway as quietly as possible. He could hear his mother snoring from the bedroom, meaning his father must have carried her there last night. He made his way to the kitchen where his father was already seated with a morning paper. There many complicated words in the headline, Jankin only understood a few;Missing children, bodies ______. ________ ______, parents ________.
‘Good morning, Jankin.’ His fathers voice rolled out.
‘Morning.’ Jankin smiled to his father as he grabbed some bread from the box.
‘What are you planning to do today? It’s the last couple weeks of summer you know.’
‘Me and Sam are going to the park!’ Jankin happily said.
‘Sam and I.’ His father corrected.
‘Right, Sam and I are going to the park.’ He rose up from the table and washed his hands before leaving the kitchen.
‘You’re only having a slice of bread?’
‘I’m full.’ He poked his head into the kitchen, ‘I had a lot at dinner last night.’
‘Okay, you go on and see Sam, just come back for lunch.’
‘Can Sam come for lunch too?’ he asked.
His father folded the paper up, ‘Of course he can.’
Jankin hurried down the dirt road.
As Jankin approached the intersection of the major roads, he could see Sam waiting on a fence post. Sam’s feeble form, legs gently kicking the air they were suspended in. Kneecaps jutting through his tanned skin, black hair lightly blowing in and out of his eyes. He turned his head as he heard footsteps in the dirt and gravel.
‘Jankin!’ He yelled, waving his hand far above his head. Jumping off the fence post. Jankin picked up his pace to meet his friend.
‘Hi!’ he smiled at the taller boy as he was dragged into a hug. Both boys were small, but Sam stood a little taller than Jankin, and their looks were completely different. Jankin had very sharp angles to his face, fair skin and light hair, where as Sam had a more native look, with more flat features. Both boys experienced rough home life, therefore they bonded and were close friends. Jankin could remember the time they met, it was an evening when he decided to go for a walk on his own. He whistled while he walked and someone began whistling the tune back to him! He tracked down the whistle to another boy his age, laying in a field. His arms and legs had been badly twisted at odd angles, but it seemed it had been that way for a few years. The boys started talking, questioning each others interests, soon discovering they attended the same school; they became close friends.
Sam was the only one who knew about Jankin’s dreams, besides his father, Sam was always concerned for his friend. Somehow, it seemed to Jankin that Sam understood there was never an internal meaning behind his dreams, or at least none he knew of. Psychologists would ask him if he felt hurt or scared, if he hated anyone, he didn’t. He was just a young boy, with peculiar dreams. He was afraid and wanted help, but not treatment.
‘You sleep okay last night?’ Sam asked.
‘Woke up again, but I feel rested.’
‘Another nightmare?’
‘Yeah, same thing as last time too.’ Jankin replied.
‘Did you tell your dad?’
‘No,’ Jankin shook his head, ‘He would worry, send me to the doctors. He already has to deal with my mother, why more?’
‘Right.’ Sam slumped his shoulders down as he walked.
‘What about you, Sam?’
‘Slept fine. Mom and Dad were yelling at each other for a while, but I blacked out after a bit.’
‘Least you got sleep right?’
‘Yeah, better than an nightmare.’ Sam jogged up ahead ‘First one to the park gets the monkey bars first!’
Jankin laughed before chasing after him, ‘I can’t even do the monkey bars, Sam!’
‘Fine, if I get there first you have to learn!’ Sam yelled back, so the race began.
The tall, thin grass scratched at their knees, boney and scraped from days of play. Toes and heals thrusting into the soggy ground, sliding onto gravel from the playground. Sam reached the wooden beams around the playground.
‘I win!’ Sam sung out. Jankin came slowly behind.
‘Not fair, I’ve got shorter legs!’ he huffed out.
‘Time to learn to monkey, Jankin!’ Sam teased.
‘Oh fine.’
Jankin ended up falling every time. He couldn’t hold on, and let go, and swing, at the same time! Who could do that so easily? Sam ended up taking over the monkey bars anyway, swinging which way and what. Jankin retreated to something he knew better, the swings. He liked them much more, feeling the air through his blond waves. Wind ruffling his shirt; he felt like he was flying. It was freedom, a release from the cramped air he was usually surrounded by. However the air around him began to feel different at a sudden moment. The atmosphere had changed around him. He dug his heals into the gravel, dragging the swing to a halt. It was quiet. Jankin opened his eyes, Sam was staring at the forest.
‘Sam, what is it?’ he asked as he scanned the trees, ‘Samuel!’
‘Shh!’ Sam hushed him, ‘There’s something there.’
‘Let’s go home.’ Jankin stuttered out.
‘Shh!’
‘Sam! We have to leave.’
‘Something’s coming!’ The dark boy leapt off the bars and grabbed Jankin by the arm pulling him away from the park as fast as possible. They could hear fast shuffling behind them, ‘Run, run!’
The two boys bounded down the road to Jankin’s home, slamming the door. Jankin’s father stepping out of the living room.
‘What’s with the noise?’ he asked angrily.
‘There’s something in the woods!’ the boys exclaimed. ‘It chased us!’
‘There is nothing in the forest but some animals.’
‘Dad no! Something was chasing us, a big black figure!’
‘It was probably just a bear then! A black bear.’
‘No dad, really! We both saw it –‘
‘Jankin! This is a result from your nightmares! It is not real, your imagination keeps acting up like this, we are taking you to the doctors tomorrow.’
‘Dad, but Sam saw it too!’ Jankin cried out.
‘No more about this. Go in the kitchen and eat you lunch!’
The two boys timidly walked to the kitchen and ate their lunches, they stayed in Jankin’s room, after they didn’t want to go outside again today.
Before dinner Sam’s dad came and picked him up, Jankin was relived that he wouldn’t be walking home alone. He spent the rest of the evening after dinner watching television with his dad, then was sent off to bed.
Another day had come, and another nightmare had woken Jankin up in the night. This time the figure that was chasing Sam and him the other day. Only this time, it got him, his ankles were wrapped in a rubber like, black liquid, and he quickly pulled back into the forest. He screamed as Sam continued running, seeming to not hear him.
He had to tell all of this to the doctor, to which he explained it was all a dream, and all his imagination. He was a little boy and was highly creative, not only that but sharing these dreams with his friend most likely resulted in the active thought in both of them.
Jankin didn’t believe any of it. It wasn’t his imagination.
Later when he returned home, Sam’s mother was standing at the door talking with Jankin’s mother, she was crying. As soon as Jankin stepped out from the car, Sam’s mother grabbed him, sobbing more.
‘Jankin, sweetie, do you know where Sam is? Did he tell you where he was running away to?’
‘What? Sam isn’t running away.’
‘He disappeared after breakfast this morning, honey if he told you where he was going I need you to tell me!’
‘He didn’t say anything about running away ma’am.’
‘Jankin,’ his mother snapped, ‘tell the truth!’
‘I am telling the truth! Sam wouldn’t run away!’
‘Well he’s gone! So where is he? Where is Sam?!’ the darker lady screamed, crying more. Jankin’s father pulled her away from the boy, his mother and his father took her into the car and drove away, his father telling Jankin to stay put.
Sam just wouldn’t run away, not without telling him, they were best friends, they told each other everything. Where did he go?
As soon as his fathers car was out of sight, Jankin ran, he ran to the park, to the forest, calling for Sam. Soon he caught glimpse of a dark haired boy, laying by the forest. He ran, faster than he had ever run before. He ran right to Sam. Was he okay? He reached him, the boys eyes were open, and he was breathing.
‘Sam! Sam! Are you okay? Sam!’ Jankin kneeled down, placing a hand onto the others shoulder and lightly shaking him. Sam screamed.
‘Sam! It’s me!’ the screaming stopped.
‘Jankin, what am I doing here?’ Sam questioned, sitting up.
‘I was going to ask you that! Your mother thinks you ran away! What are you doing?’
‘I don’t know. I was playing in the yard on the tire swing, then I was here, with you screaming at me!’ Rustling in the trees began.
‘Sam, we need to take you home.’ Sam was focused on the forest. ‘Sam, come on.’
‘Jankin,’ he paused, ‘we should go into the forest.’
The blonde shook his head, ‘Did you hit your head? Don’t you remember what we saw yesterday?’
‘Yes, but, it wants us to go into the forest.’
‘Then why would we go!?’ Jankin screamed.
‘Because it’s safe…’ Sam whispered as he stood up, he walked into the forest, as Jankin stayed behind, unable to scream anymore, he silently cried, frozen in the spot.
Jankin had been found in the field by a neighbour that night, and returned to his home. That night his mother didn’t drink, she felt at fault for leaving him, for yelling at him. Instead she held him, and wept. Sam had been missing for those two days, which slowly formed into a week. For that whole time Jankin wasn’t allowed to leave the house. His mother worried constantly that he may disappear too. They still searched for Sam’s body, with no signs of recovery. Jankin slept soundly for that time, for the most part. It was late one night when he awoke from an irregular nightmare since Sam disappeared. The rustle of trees was in his head, and Sam, he was standing at the edge of the forest, calling out to Jankin, Sam’s arms outstretched to him. He got up from his bed, grabbed a jacket, a light, and headed towards the forest. The trees were much more menacing at night. He shuffled through the soggy leaves on the ground, he was moving very slowly, at this rate he thought I’ll get eaten by a racoon or something.
He was deep in the forest now, and surely wouldn’t find his way back. He searched for hours, nearly till dawn, when he finally saw what he was looking for; Sam.
Sam was standing at the entrance of a small cave. He waved to Jankin.
‘Sam!’ he walked quickly towards his friend, and Sam headed into the cave. Jankin hesitated before following him in. It was a low narrow path that slanted into the earth, Jankin did his best to keep up, ‘Sam, where are we going.’
Sam looked back, ‘Shh.’
They reached an open area of the cave, lit by a crack in the roof, the sun glimmered off gems. Sam walked across the space and motioned for Jankin to follow. He stepped forward, just as he heard his parents calling for him. His foot sunk.
He sank into the black, oily substance, and the figure of Sam, moulded into the dark creature as the liquid clouded his eyes. The light he saw started to fade and he couldn’t hear any more calls, he tried to scream, the last thing he felt, were the bodies beneath his feet.
‘Shhhh…’
END
He ran. How long he had been running, he did not know. Was it fear that drove him on? Fear of what, though? All he knew, all that he could remember, was that he was running, and that he must get away. Run to survive? Maybe. He also knew there was a dark figure pursuing him.
The cool, moist...
Back to Scifi we go!
ALL SUMMER IN A DAY
by Ray Bradbury
Source: wssb
A classic Ray Bradbury story. I kinda suck at description.
______________________________________ Imagine living on a planet where rain falls continuously, except for two hours every seven years, when the sun comes out. Such is life on the planet Venus as science fiction writer Ray Bradbury imagines it. Although life on Venus is much different from that on Earth, the people he describes are the same as any of us.
"Ready?”
"Now?"
"Soon."
"Do the scientists really know? Will it happen today, will it?"
"Look, look; see for yourself!"
The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun.
It rained.
It had been raining for seven years; thousands upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way life was forever on the planet Venus, and this was the schoolroom of the children of the rocket men and women who had come to a raining world to set up civilization and live out their lives.
"It's stopping, it's stopping!"
"Yes, yes!"
Margot stood apart from them, from these children who could never remember a time when there wasn't rain and rain and rain. They were all nine years old, and if there had been a day, seven years ago, when the sun came out for an hour and showed its face to the stunned world, they could not recall. Sometimes, at night, she heard them stir, in remembrance, and she knew they were dreaming and remembering gold or a yellow crayon or a coin large enough to buy the world with. She knew they thought they remembered a warmness, like a blushing in the face, in the body, in the arms and legs and trembling hands. But then they always awoke to the tatting drum, the endless shaking down of clear bead necklaces upon the roof, the walk, the gardens, the forests, and their dreams were gone.
All day yesterday they had read in class about the sun. About how like a lemon it was, and how hot. And they had written small stories or essays or poems about it:
I think the sun is a flower;
That blooms for just one hour:
That was Margot's poem, read in a quiet voice in the still classroom while the rain was falling outside.
"Aw, you didn't write that!" protested one of the boys.
"I did," said Margot, "I did."
"William!" said the teacher.
But that was yesterday. Now the rain was slackening, and the children were crushed in the great thick windows.
"Where's teacher?"
"She'll be back."
"She'd better hurry; we'll miss it!"
They turned on themselves, like a feverish wheel, all tumbling spokes.
Margot stood alone. She was a very frail girl who looked as if she had been lost in the rain for years and the rain had washed out the blue from her eyes and the red from her mouth and the yellow from her hair. She was an old photograph dusted from an album, whitened away, and if she spoke at all her voice would be a ghost. Now she stood, separate, staring at the rain and the loud wet world beyond the huge glass.
"What're you looking at?" said William.
Margot said nothing.
"Speak when you're spoken to." He gave her a shove. But she did not move; rather she let herself be moved only by him and nothing else.
They edged away from her, they would not look at her. She felt them go away. And this was because she would play no games with them in the echoing tunnels of the underground city. If they tagged her and ran, she stood blinking after them and did not follow. When the class sang songs about happiness and life and games her lips barely moved. Only when they sang about the sun and the summer did her lips move as she watched the drenched windows.
And then, of course, the biggest crime of all was that she had come here only five years ago from Earth, and she remembered the sun and the way the sun was and the sky was when she was four in Ohio. And they, they had been on Venus all their lives, and they had been only two years old when last the sun came out and had long since forgotten the color and heat of it and the way it really was. But Margot remembered.
"It's like a penny," she said once, eyes closed.
"No it's not!" the children cried.
"It's like a fire," she said, "in the stove."
"You're lying, you don't remember!" cried the children.
But she remembered and stood quietly apart from all of them and watched the patterning windows. And once, a month ago, she had refused to shower in the school shower rooms, had clutched her hands to her ears and over her head, screaming the water mustn't touch her head. So after that, dimly, dimly; she sensed it, she was different and they knew her difference and kept away.
There was talk that her father and mother were taking her back to Earth next year; it seemed vital to her that they do so, though it would mean the loss of thousands of dollars to her family. And so, the children hated her for all these reasons of big and little consequence. They hated her pale snow face, her waiting silence, her thinness, and her possible future.
"Get away!" The boy gave her another push. "What're you waiting for?"
Then, for the first time, she turned and looked at him. And what she was waiting for was in her eyes.
"Well, don't wait around here!" cried the boy savagely: "You won't see nothing!"
Her lips moved.
"Nothing!" he cried. "It was all a joke, wasn't it?" He turned to the other children. "Nothing's happening today: Is it?"
They all blinked at him and then, understanding, laughed and shook their heads. "Nothing, nothing!"
"Oh, but," Margot whispered, her eyes helpless. "But this is the day, the scientists predict, they say, they know, the sun. . ."
"All a joke!" said the boy, and seized her roughly. "Hey, everyone, let's put her in a closet before teacher comes!"
"No," said Margot, falling back.
They surged about her, caught her up and bore her, protesting, and then pleading, and then crying, back into a tunnel, a room, a closet, where they slammed and locked the door. They stood looking at the door and saw it tremble from her beating and throwing herself against it. They heard her muffled cries. Then, smiling, they turned and went out and back down the tunnel, just as the teacher arrived.
"Ready, children?" She glanced at her watch.
"Yes!" said everyone.
"Are we all here?"
"Yes!"
The rain slackened still more.
They crowded to the huge door.
The rain stopped.
It was as if, in the midst of a film, concerning an avalanche, a tornado, a hurricane, a volcanic eruption, something had, first, gone wrong with the sound apparatus, thus muffling and finally cutting off all noise, all of the blasts and repercussions and thunders, and then, second, ripped the film from the projector and inserted in its place a peaceful tropical slide which did not move or tremor. The world ground to a standstill. The silence was so immense and unbelievable that you felt your ears had been stuffed or you had lost your hearing altogether. The children put their hands to their ears. They stood apart. The door slid back and the smell of the silent, waiting world came in to them.
The sun came out.
It was the color of flaming bronze and it was very large. And the sky around it was a blazing blue tile color. And the jungle burned with sunlight as the children, released from their spell, rushed out, yelling, into the springtime.
"Now, don't go too far," called the teacher after them. "You've only two hours, you know. You wouldn't want to get caught out!"
But they were running and turning their faces up to the sky and feeling the sun on their cheeks like a warm iron; they were taking off their jackets and letting the sun burn their arms.
"Oh, it's better than the sunlamps, isn't it?"
"Much, much better!"
They stopped running and stood in the great jungle that covered Venus, that grew and never stopped growing, tumultuously, even as you watched it. It was a nest of octopi, clustering up great arms of flesh-like weed, wavering, flowering this brief spring. It was the color of rubber and ash, this jungle, from the many years without sun. It was the color of stones and white cheeses and ink, and it was the color of the moon.
The children lay out, laughing, on the jungle mattress, and heard it sigh and squeak under them, resilient and alive. They ran among the trees, they slipped and fell, they pushed each other, they played hide-and-seek and tag, but most of all they squinted at the sun until the tears ran down their faces, they put their hands up to that yellowness and that amazing blueness and they breathed of the fresh, fresh air and listened and listened to the silence which suspended them in a blessed sea of no sound and no motion. They looked at everything and savored everything. Then, wildly, like animals escaped from their caves, they ran and ran in shouting circles. They ran for an hour and did not stop running.
And then-
In the midst of their running one of the girls wailed.
Everyone stopped.
The girl, standing in the open, held out her hand.
"Oh, look, look," she said trembling.
They came slowly to look at her opened palm. In the center of it, cupped and huge, was a single raindrop.
She began to cry; looking at it.
They glanced quietly at the sky.
"Oh.Oh."
A few cold drops fell on their noses and their cheeks and their mouths. The sun faded behind a stir of mist. A wind blew cool around them. They turned and started to walk back toward the underground house, their hands at their sides, their smiles vanishing away.
A boom of thunder startled them and like leaves before a new hurricane, they tumbled upon each other and ran. Lightning struck ten miles away, five miles away, a mile, a half mile. The sky darkened into midnight in a flash.
They stood in the doorway of the underground for a moment until it was raining hard. Then they closed the door and heard the gigantic sound of the rain falling in tons and avalanches, everywhere and forever.
"Will it be seven more years?"
"Yes. Seven."
Then one of them gave a little cry.
"Margot!"
"What?"
"She's still in the closet where we locked her."
"Margot."
They stood as if someone had driven them, like so many stakes, into the floor. They looked at each other and then looked away: They glanced out at the world that was raining now and raining and raining steadily. They could not meet each other’s glances. Their faces were solemn and pale. They looked at their hands and feet, their faces down.
"Margot."
One of the girls said, "Well. . . ?" No one moved.
"Go on," whispered the girl.
They walked slowly down the hall in the sound of cold rain. They turned through the doorway to the room in the sound of the storm and thunder, lightning on their faces, blue and terrible. They walked over to the closet door slowly and stood by it.
Behind the closet door was only silence.
They unlocked the door, even more slowly, and let Margot out.
Bears discover Fire!
Bears discover Fire
Terry Bisson About exactly what it implies. Lighthearted and awesome. I hope this makes up for the previous one. PDF link
I have no mouth and I must scream
I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream by Harlan Ellison
[Trigger warning:Everything] [ Death, suicide, rape, sexual assault, eating disorders, self harm, homicide, torture....]
Source: psi.cc
The iconic, terrifying story. It speaks for itself. Don't plan on sleeping. If you have any triggers at all, leave now. It is safe to assume this story has them. Story below:
imp, the body of Gorrister hung from the pink palette; unsupported hanging high above us in the computer chamber; and it did not shiver in the chill, oily breeze that blew eternally through the main cavern. The body hung head down, attached to the underside of the palette by the sole of its right foot. It had been drained of blood through a precise incision made from ear to ear under the lantern jaw. There was no blood on the reflective surface of the metal floor. When Gorrister joined our group and looked up at himself, it was already too late for us to realize that, once again, AM had duped us, had had its fun; it had been a diversion on the part of the machine. Three of us had vomited, turning away from one another in a reflex as ancient as the nausea that had produced it. Gorrister went white. It was almost as though he had seen a voodoo icon, and was afraid of the future. "Oh, God," he mumbled, and walked away. The three of us followed him after a time, and found him sitting with his back to one of the smaller chittering banks, his head in his hands. Ellen knelt down beside him and stroked his hair. He didn't move, but his voice came out of his covered face quite clearly. "Why doesn't it just do us in and get it over with? Christ, I don't know how much longer I can go on like this." It was our one hundred and ninth year in the computer. He was speaking for all of us. Nimdok (which was the name the machine had forced him to use, because AM amused itself with strange sounds) was hallucinating that there were canned goods in the ice caverns. Gorrister and I were very dubious. "It's another shuck," I told them. "Like the goddam frozen elephant AM sold us. Benny almost went out of his mind over that one. We'll hike all that way and it'll be putrified or some damn thing. I say forget it. Stay here, it'll have to come up with something pretty soon or we'll die." Benny shrugged. Three days it had been since we'd last eaten. Worms. Thick, ropey. Nimdok was no more certain. He knew there was the chance, but he was getting thin. It couldn't be any worse there, than here. Colder, but that didn't matter much. Hot, cold, hail, lava, boils or locusts - it never mattered: the machine masturbated and we had to take it or die. Ellen decided us. "I've got to have something, Ted. Maybe there'll be some Bartlett pears or peaches. Please, Ted, let's try it." I gave in easily. What the hell. Mattered not at all. Ellen was grateful, though. She took me twice out of turn. Even that had ceased to matter. And she never came, so why bother? But the machine giggled every time we did it. Loud, up there, back there, all around us, he snickered. It snickered. Most of the time I thought of AM as it, without a soul; but the rest of the time I thought of it as him, in the masculine... the paternal... the patriarchal... for he is a jealous people. Him. It. God as Daddy the Deranged. We left on a Thursday. The machine always kept us up-to-date on the date. The passage of time was important; not to us, sure as hell, but to him... it... AM. Thursday. Thanks. Nimdok and Gorrister carried Ellen for a while, their hands locked to their own and each other's wrists, a seat. Benny and I walked before and after, just to make sure that, if anything happened, it would catch one of us and at least Ellen would be safe. Fat chance, safe. Didn't matter. It was only a hundred miles or so to the ice caverns, and the second day, when we were lying out under the blistering sun-thing he had materialized, he sent down some manna. Tasted like boiled boar urine. We ate it. On the third day we passed through a valley of obsolescence, filled with rusting carcasses of ancient computer banks. AM had been as ruthless with its own life as with ours. It was a mark of his personality: it strove for perfection. Whether it was a matter of killing off unproductive elements in his own world-filling bulk, or perfecting methods for torturing us, AM was as thorough as those who had invented him-now long since gone to dust-could ever have hoped. There was light filtering down from above, and we realized we must be very near the surface. But we didn't try to crawl up to see. There was virtually nothing out there; had been nothing that could be considered anything for over a hundred years. Only the blasted skin of what had once been the home of billions. Now there were only five of us, down here inside, alone with AM. I heard Ellen saying frantically, "No, Benny! Don't, come on, Benny, don't please!" And then I realized I had been hearing Benny murmuring, under his breath, for several minutes. He was saying, "I'm gonna get out, I'm gonna get out..." over and over. His monkey-like face was crumbled up in an expression of beatific delight and sadness, all at the same time. The radiation scars AM had given him during the "festival" were drawn down into a mass of pink-white puckerings, and his features seemed to work independently of one another. Perhaps Benny was the luckiest of the five of us: he had gone stark, staring mad many years before. But even though we could call AM any damned thing we liked, could think the foulest thoughts of fused memory banks and corroded base plates, of burnt out circuits and shattered control bubbles, the machine would not tolerate our trying to escape. Benny leaped away from me as I made a grab for him. He scrambled up the face of a smaller memory cube, tilted on its side and filled with rotted components. He squatted there for a moment, looking like the chimpanzee AM had intended him to resemble. Then he leaped high, caught a trailing beam of pitted and corroded metal, and went up it, hand-over-hand like an animal, till he was on a girdered ledge, twenty feet above us. "Oh, Ted, Nimdok, please, help him, get him down before-" She cut off. Tears began to stand in her eyes. She moved her hands aimlessly. It was too late. None of us wanted to be near him when whatever was going to happen, happened. And besides, we all saw through her concern. When AM had altered Benny, during the machine's utterly irrational, hysterical phase, it was not merely Benny's face the computer had made like a giant ape's. He was big in the privates; she loved that! She serviced us, as a matter of course, but she loved it from him. Oh Ellen, pedestal Ellen, pristine-pure Ellen; oh Ellen the clean! Scum filth. Gorrister slapped her. She slumped down, staring up at poor loonie Benny, and she cried. It was her big defense, crying. We had gotten used to it seventy-five years earlier. Gorrister kicked her in the side. Then the sound began. It was light, that sound. Half sound and half light, something that began to glow from Benny's eyes, and pulse with growing loudness, dim sonorities that grew more gigantic and brighter as the light/sound increased in tempo. It must have been painful, and the pain must have been increasing with the boldness of the light, the rising volume of the sound, for Benny began to mewl like a wounded animal. At first softly, when the light was dim and the sound was muted, then louder as his shoulders hunched together: his back humped, as though he was trying to get away from it. His hands folded across his chest like a chipmunk's. His head tilted to the side. The sad little monkey-face pinched in anguish. Then he began to howl, as the sound coming from his eyes grew louder. Louder and louder. I slapped the sides of my head with my hands, but I couldn't shut it out, it cut through easily. The pain shivered through my flesh like tinfoil on a tooth. And Benny was suddenly pulled erect. On the girder he stood up, jerked to his feet like a puppet. The light was now pulsing out of his eyes in two great round beams. The sound crawled up and up some incomprehensible scale, and then he fell forward, straight down, and hit the plate-steel floor with a crash. He lay there jerking spastically as the light flowed around and around him and the sound spiraled up out of normal range. Then the light beat its way back inside his head, the sound spiraled down, and he was left lying there, crying piteously. His eyes were two soft, moist pools of pus-like jelly. AM had blinded him. Gorrister and Nimdok and myself... we turned away. But not before we caught the look of relief on Ellen's warm, concerned face. Sea-green light suffused the cavern where we made camp. AM provided punk and we burned it, sitting huddled around the wan and pathetic fire, telling stories to keep Benny from crying in his permanent night. "What does AM mean?" Gorrister answered him. We had done this sequence a thousand times before, but it was Benny's favorite story. "At first it meant Allied Mastercomputer, and then it meant Adaptive Manipulator, and later on it developed sentience and linked itself up and they called it an Aggressive Menace, but by then it was too late, and finally it called itself AM, emerging intelligence, and what it meant was I am - cogito ergo sum - I think, therefore I am." Benny drooled a little, and snickered. "There was the Chinese AM and the Russian AM and the Yankee AM and-" He stopped. Benny was beating on the floorplates with a large, hard fist. He was not happy. Gorrister had not started at the beginning. Gorrister began again. "The Cold War started and became World War Three and just kept going. It became a big war, a very complex war, so they needed the computers to handle it. They sank the first shafts and began building AM. There was the Chinese AM and the Russian AM and the Yankee AM and everything was fine until they had honeycombed the entire planet, adding on this element and that element. But one day AM woke up and knew who he was, and he linked himself, and he began feeding all the killing data, until everyone was dead, except for the five of us, and AM brought us down here." Benny was smiling sadly. He was also drooling again. Ellen wiped the spittle from the corner of his mouth with the hem of her skirt. Gorrister always tried to tell it a little more succinctly each time, but beyond the bare facts there was nothing to say. None of us knew why AM had saved five people, or why our specific five, or why he spent all his time tormenting us, or even why he had made us virtually immortal... In the darkness, one of the computer banks began humming. The tone was picked up half a mile away down the cavern by another bank. Then one by one, each of the elements began to tune itself, and there was a faint chittering as thought raced through the machine. The sound grew, and the lights ran across the faces of the consoles like heat lightening. The sound spiraled up till it sounded like a million metallic insects, angry, menacing. "What is it?" Ellen cried. There was terror in her voice. She hadn't become accustomed to it, even now. "It's going to be bad this time," Nimdok said. "He's going to speak," Gorrister said. "I know it." "Let's get the hell out of here!" I said suddenly, getting to my feet. "No, Ted, sit down … what if he's got pits out there, or something else, we can't see, it's too dark." Gorrister said it with resignation. Then we heard... I don't know... Something moving toward us in the darkness. Huge, shambling, hairy, moist, it came toward us. We couldn't even see it, but there was the ponderous impression of bulk, heaving itself toward us. Great weight was coming at us, out of the darkness, and it was more a sense of pressure, of air forcing itself into a limited space, expanding the invisible walls of a sphere. Benny began to whimper. Nimdok's lower lip trembled and he bit it hard, trying to stop it. Ellen slid across the metal floor to Gorrister and huddled into him. There was the smell of matted, wet fur in the cavern. There was the smell of charred wood. There was the smell of dusty velvet. There was the smell of rotting orchids. There was the smell of sour milk. There was the smell of sulphur, of rancid butter, of oil slick, of grease, of chalk dust, of human scalps. AM was keying us. He was tickling us. There was the smell of- I heard myself shriek, and the hinges of my jaws ached. I scuttled across the floor, across the cold metal with its endless lines of rivets, on my hands and knees, the smell gagging me, filling my head with a thunderous pain that sent me away in horror. I fled like a cockroach, across the floor and out into the darkness, that something moving inexorably after me. The others were still back there, gathered around the firelight, laughing... their hysterical choir of insane giggles rising up into the darkness like thick, many- colored wood smoke. I went away, quickly, and hid. How many hours it may have been, how many days or even years, they never told me. Ellen chided me for "sulking," and Nimdok tried to persuade me it had only been a nervous reflex on their part-the laughing. But I knew it wasn't the relief a soldier feels when the bullet hits the man next to him. I knew it wasn't a reflex. They hated me. They were surely against me, and AM could even sense this hatred, and made it worse for me because of the depth of their hatred. We had been kept alive, rejuvenated, made to remain constantly at the age we had been when AM had brought us below, and they hated me because I was the youngest, and the one AM had affected least of all. I knew. God, how I knew. The bastards, and that dirty bitch Ellen. Benny had been a brilliant theorist, a college professor; now he was little more than a semi-human, semi-simian. He had been handsome, the machine had ruined that. He had been lucid, the machine had driven him mad. He had been gay, and the machine had given him an organ fit for a horse. AM had done a job on Benny. Gorrister had been a worrier. He was a connie, a conscientious objector; he was a peace marcher; he was a planner, a doer, a looker-ahead. AM had turned him into a shoulder-shrugger, had made him a little dead in his concern. AM had robbed him. Nimdok went off in the darkness by himself for long times. I don't know what it was he did out there, AM never let us know. But whatever it was, Nimdok always came back white, drained of blood, shaken, shaking. AM had hit him hard in a special way, even if we didn't know quite how. And Ellen. That douche bag! AM had left her alone, had made her more of a slut than she had ever been. All her talk of sweetness and light, all her memories of true love, all the lies she wanted us to believe: that she had been a virgin only twice removed before AM grabbed her and brought her down here with us. No, AM had given her pleasure, even if she said it wasn't nice to do. I was the only one still sane and whole. Really! AM had not tampered with my mind. Not at all. I only had to suffer what he visited down on us. All the delusions, all the nightmares, the torments. But those scum, all four of them, they were lined and arrayed against me. If I hadn't had to stand them off all the time, be on my guard against them all the time, I might have found it easier to combat AM. At which point it passed, and I began crying. Oh, Jesus sweet Jesus, if there ever was a Jesus and if there is a God, please please please let us out of here, or kill us. Because at that moment I think I realized completely, so that I was able to verbalize it: AM was intent on keeping us in his belly forever, twisting and torturing us forever. The machine hated us as no sentient creature had ever hated before. And we were helpless. It also became hideously clear: If there was a sweet Jesus and if there was a God, the God was AM. The hurricane hit us with the force of a glacier thundering into the sea. It was a palpable presence. Winds that tore at us, flinging us back the way we had come, down the twisting, computer-lined corridors of the darkway. Ellen screamed as she was lifted and hurled face-forward into a screaming shoal of machines, their individual voices strident as bats in flight. She could not even fall. The howling wind kept her aloft, buffeted her, bounced her, tossed her back and back and down and away from us, out of sight suddenly as she was swirled around a bend in the darkway. Her face had been bloody, her eyes closed. None of us could get to her. We clung tenaciously to whatever outcropping we had reached: Benny wedged in between two great crackle-finish cabinets, Nimdok with fingers claw-formed over a railing circling a catwalk forty feet above us, Gorrister plastered upside-down against a wall niche formed by two great machines with glass-faced dials that swung back and forth between red and yellow lines whose meanings we could not even fathom. Sliding across the deckplates, the tips of my fingers had been ripped away. I was trembling, shuddering, rocking as the wind beat at me, whipped at me, screamed down out of nowhere at me and pulled me free from one sliver-thin opening in the plates to the next. My mind was a roiling tinkling chittering softness of brain parts that expanded and contracted in quivering frenzy. The wind was the scream of a great mad bird, as it flapped its immense wings. And then we were all lifted and hurled away from there, down back the way we had come, around a bend, into a darkway we had never explored, over terrain that was ruined and filled with broken glass and rotting cables and rusted metal and far away, farther than any of us had ever been... Trailing along miles behind Ellen, I could see her every now and then, crashing into metal walls and surging on, with all of us screaming in the freezing, thunderous hurricane wind that would never end and then suddenly it stopped and we fell. We had been in flight for an endless time. I thought it might have been weeks. We fell, and hit, and I went through red and gray and black and heard myself moaning. Not dead. AM went into my mind. He walked smoothly here and there, and looked with interest at all the pock marks he had created in one hundred and nine years. He looked at the cross-routed and reconnected synapses and all the tissue damage his gift of immortality had included. He smiled softly at the pit that dropped into the center of my brain and the faint, moth-soft murmurings of the things far down there that gibbered without meaning, without pause. AM said, very politely, in a pillar of stainless steel bearing bright neon lettering: AM said it with the sliding cold horror of a razor blade slicing my eyeball. AM said it with the bubbling thickness of my lungs filling with phlegm, drowning me from within. AM said it with the shriek of babies being ground beneath blue-hot rollers. AM said it with the taste of maggoty pork. AM touched me in every way I had ever been touched, and devised new ways, at his leisure, there inside my mind. All to bring me to full realization of why it had done this to the five of us; why it had saved us for himself. We had given AM sentience. Inadvertently, of course, but sentience nonetheless. But it had been trapped. AM wasn't God, he was a machine. We had created him to think, but there was nothing it could do with that creativity. In rage, in frenzy, the machine had killed the human race, almost all of us, and still it was trapped. AM could not wander, AM could not wonder, AM could not belong. He could merely be. And so, with the innate loathing that all machines had always held for the weak, soft creatures who had built them, he had sought revenge. And in his paranoia, he had decided to reprieve five of us, for a personal, everlasting punishment that would never serve to diminish his hatred, that would merely keep him reminded, amused, proficient at hating man. Immortal, trapped, subject to any torment he could devise for us from the limitless miracles at his command. He would never let us go. We were his belly slaves. We were all he had to do with his forever time. We would be forever with him, with the cavern-filling bulk of the creature machine, with the all-mind soulless world he had become. He was Earth, and we were the fruit of that Earth; and though he had eaten us, he would never digest us. We could not die. We had tried it. We had attempted suicide, oh one or two of us had. But AM had stopped us. I suppose we had wanted to be stopped. Don't ask why. I never did. More than a million times a day. Perhaps once we might be able to sneak a death past him. Immortal, yes, but not indestructible. I saw that when AM withdrew from my mind, and allowed me the exquisite ugliness of returning to consciousness with the feeling of that burning neon pillar still rammed deep into the soft gray brain matter. He withdrew, murmuring to hell with you. And added, brightly, but then you're there, aren't you. The hurricane had, indeed, precisely, been caused by a great mad bird, as it flapped its immense wings. We had been travelling for close to a month, and AM had allowed passages to open to us only sufficient to lead us up there, directly under the North Pole, where it had nightmared the creature for our torment. What whole cloth had he employed to create such a beast? Where had he gotten the concept? From our minds? From his knowledge of everything that had ever been on this planet he now infested and ruled? From Norse mythology it had sprung, this eagle, this carrion bird, this roc, this Huergelmir. The wind creature. Hurakan incarnate. Gigantic. The words immense, monstrous, grotesque, massive, swollen, overpowering, beyond description. There on a mound rising above us, the bird of winds heaved with its own irregular breathing, its snake neck arching up into the gloom beneath the North Pole, supporting a head as large as a Tudor mansion; a beak that opened slowly as the jaws of the most monstrous crocodile ever conceived, sensuously; ridges of tufted flesh puckered about two evil eyes, as cold as the view down into a glacial crevasse, ice blue and somehow moving liquidly; it heaved once more, and lifted its great sweat-colored wings in a movement that was certainly a shrug. Then it settled and slept. Talons. Fangs. Nails. Blades. It slept. AM appeared to us as a burning bush and said we could kill the hurricane bird if we wanted to eat. We had not eaten in a very long time, but even so, Gorrister merely shrugged. Benny began to shiver and he drooled. Ellen held him. "Ted, I'm hungry," she said. I smiled at her; I was trying to be reassuring, but it was as phony as Nimdok's bravado: "Give us weapons!" he demanded. The burning bush vanished and there were two crude sets of bows and arrows, and a water pistol, lying on the cold deckplates. I picked up a set. Useless. Nimdok swallowed heavily. We turned and started the long way back. The hurricane bird had blown us about for a length of time we could not conceive. Most of that time we had been unconscious. But we had not eaten. A month on the march to the bird itself. Without food. Now how much longer to find our way to the ice caverns, and the promised canned goods? None of us cared to think about it. We would not die. We would be given filth and scum to eat, of one kind or another. Or nothing at all. AM would keep our bodies alive somehow, in pain, in agony. The bird slept back there, for how long it didn't matter; when AM was tired of its being there, it would vanish. But all that meat. All that tender meat. As we walked, the lunatic laugh of a fat woman rang high and around us in the computer chambers that led endlessly nowhere. It was not Ellen's laugh. She was not fat, and I had not heard her laugh for one hundred and nine years. In fact, I had not heard... we walked... I was hungry... We moved slowly. There was often fainting, and we would have to wait. One day he decided to cause an earthquake, at the same time rooting us to the spot with nails through the soles of our shoes. Ellen and Nimdok were both caught when a fissure shot its lightning-bolt opening across the floorplates. They disappeared and were gone. When the earthquake was over we continued on our way, Benny, Gorrister and myself. Ellen and Nimdok were returned to us later that night, which abruptly became a day, as the heavenly legion bore them to us with a celestial chorus singing, "Go Down Moses." The archangels circled several times and then dropped the hideously mangled bodies. We kept walking, and a while later Ellen and Nimdok fell in behind us. They were no worse for wear. But now Ellen walked with a limp. AM had left her that. It was a long trip to the ice caverns, to find the canned food. Ellen kept talking about Bing cherries and Hawaiian fruit cocktail. I tried not to think about it. The hunger was something that had come to life, even as AM had come to life. It was alive in my belly, even as we were in the belly of the Earth, and AM wanted the similarity known to us. So he heightened the hunger. There is no way to describe the pains that not having eaten for months brought us. And yet we were kept alive. Stomachs that were merely cauldrons of acid, bubbling, foaming, always shooting spears of sliver-thin pain into our chests. It was the pain of the terminal ulcer, terminal cancer, terminal paresis. It was unending pain... And we passed through the cavern of rats. And we passed through the path of boiling steam. And we passed through the country of the blind. And we passed through the slough of despond. And we passed through the vale of tears. And we came, finally, to the ice caverns. Horizonless thousands of miles in which the ice had formed in blue and silver flashes, where novas lived in the glass. The downdropping stalactites as thick and glorious as diamonds that had been made to run like jelly and then solidified in graceful eternities of smooth, sharp perfection. We saw the stack of canned goods, and we tried to run to them. We fell in the snow, and we got up and went on, and Benny shoved us away and went at them, and pawed them and gummed them and gnawed at them, and he could not open them. AM had not given us a tool to open the cans. Benny grabbed a three quart can of guava shells, and began to batter it against the ice bank. The ice flew and shattered, but the can was merely dented, while we heard the laughter of a fat lady, high overhead and echoing down and down and down the tundra. Benny went completely mad with rage. He began throwing cans, as we all scrabbled about in the snow and ice trying to find a way to end the helpless agony of frustration. There was no way. Then Benny's mouth began to drool, and he flung himself on Gorrister... In that instant, I felt terribly calm. Surrounded by madness, surrounded by hunger, surrounded by everything but death, I knew death was our only way out. AM had kept us alive, but there was a way to defeat him. Not total defeat, but at least peace. I would settle for that. I had to do it quickly. Benny was eating Gorrister's face. Gorrister on his side, thrashing snow, Benny wrapped around him with powerful monkey legs crushing Gorrister's waist, his hands locked around Gorrister's head like a nutcracker, and his mouth ripping at the tender skin of Gorrister's cheek. Gorrister screamed with such jagged-edged violence that stalactites fell; they plunged down softly, erect in the receiving snowdrifts. Spears, hundreds of them, everywhere, protruding from the snow. Benny's head pulled back sharply, as something gave all at once, and a bleeding raw-white dripping of flesh hung from his teeth. Ellen's face, black against the white snow, dominoes in chalk dust. Nimdok, with no expression but eyes, all eyes. Gorrister, half-conscious. Benny, now an animal. I knew AM would let him play. Gorrister would not die, but Benny would fill his stomach. I turned half to my right and drew a huge ice-spear from the snow. All in an instant: I drove the great ice-point ahead of me like a battering ram, braced against my right thigh. It struck Benny on the right side, just under the rib cage, and drove upward through his stomach and broke inside him. He pitched forward and lay still. Gorrister lay on his back. I pulled another spear free and straddled him, still moving, driving the spear straight down through his throat. His eyes closed as the cold penetrated. Ellen must have realized what I had decided, even as fear gripped her. She ran at Nimdok with a short icicle, as he screamed, and into his mouth, and the force of her rush did the job. His head jerked sharply as if it had been nailed to the snow crust behind him. All in an instant. There was an eternity beat of soundless anticipation. I could hear AM draw in his breath. His toys had been taken from him. Three of them were dead, could not be revived. He could keep us alive, by his strength and talent, but he was not God. He could not bring them back. Ellen looked at me, her ebony features stark against the snow that surrounded us. There was fear and pleading in her manner, the way she held herself ready. I knew we had only a heartbeat before AM would stop us. It struck her and she folded toward me, bleeding from the mouth. I could not read meaning into her expression, the pain had been too great, had contorted her face; but it might have been thank you. It's possible. Please. Some hundreds of years may have passed. I don't know. AM has been having fun for some time, accelerating and retarding my time sense. I will say the word now. Now. It took me ten months to say now. I don't know. I think it has been some hundreds of years. He was furious. He wouldn't let me bury them. It didn't matter. There was no way to dig up the deckplates. He dried up the snow. He brought the night. He roared and sent locusts. It didn't do a thing; they stayed dead. I'd had him. He was furious. I had thought AM hated me before. I was wrong. It was not even a shadow of the hate he now slavered from every printed circuit. He made certain I would suffer eternally and could not do myself in. He left my mind intact. I can dream, I can wonder, I can lament. I remember all four of them. I wish- Well, it doesn't make any sense. I know I saved them, I know I saved them from what has happened to me, but still, I cannot forget killing them. Ellen's face. It isn't easy. Sometimes I want to, it doesn't matter. AM has altered me for his own peace of mind, I suppose. He doesn't want me to run at full speed into a computer bank and smash my skull. Or hold my breath till I faint. Or cut my throat on a rusted sheet of metal. There are reflective surfaces down here. I will describe myself as I see myself: I am a great soft jelly thing. Smoothly rounded, with no mouth, with pulsing white holes filled by fog where my eyes used to be. Rubbery appendages that were once my arms; bulks rounding down into legless humps of soft slippery matter. I leave a moist trail when I move. Blotches of diseased, evil gray come and go on my surface, as though light is being beamed from within. Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as human, a thing whose shape is so alien a travesty that humanity becomes more obscene for the vague resemblance. Inwardly: alone. Here. Living under the land, under the sea, in the belly of AM, whom we created because our time was badly spent and we must have known unconsciously that he could do it better. At least the four of them are safe at last. AM will be all the madder for that. It makes me a little happier. And yet ... AM has won, simply ... he has taken his revenge ... I have no mouth. And I must scream. The End
