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Robert “A.” Heinlein. FOR US THE LIVING ROBERT A. HEINLEIN. From Grandmaster Robert “A.” Heinlein comes a long-lost first novel, written in 1939 and never before published, introducing ideas and themes that would shape his career and define the genre that is synonymous with his name. JULY 12, 1939. Perry Nelson is driving along the palisades when suddenly another vehicle swerves into his lane, a tire blows out, and his car careens off the road and over a bluff. The last thing he sees before his head connects with the boulders below is a girl in a green bathing suit, prancing along the shore. When he wakes, the girl in green is a woman dressed in furs and the sun-drenched shore has transformed into snowcapped mountains. The woman, Diana, rescues Perry from the bitter cold and takes him inside her home to rest and recuperate. Later they debate the cause of the accident, for Diana is unfamiliar with the concept of a tire blowout and Perry cannot comprehend snowfall in mid-July. Then Diana shares with him a vital piece of information: The date is now January 7. The year, 2086. When his shock subsides, Perry begins an exhaustive study of global evolution over the past 150 years. He learns, among other things, that a United Europe was formed and led by Edward, Duke of Windsor; former New York City mayor LaGuardia served two terms as president of the United States; the military draft was completely reconceived; banks became publicly owned and operated; and in the year 2003, two helicopters destroyed the island of Manhattan in a galvanizing act of war. This education in the ways of the modern world emboldens Perry to assimilate to life in the twenty-first century. But education brings with it inescapable truths, the economic and legal systems, the government, and even the dynamic between men and women remain alien to Perry, the customs of the new day continually testing his mental and emotional resolve. Yet it is precisely his knowledge of a bygone era that will serve Perry best, as the man from 1939 seems destined to lead his newfound peers even further into the future than they could have imagined. A classic example of the future history that Robert Heinlein popularized during his career, For Us, The Living marks both the beginning and the end of an extraordinary arc of political, social, and literary crusading that comprises his legacy. Heinlein could not have known in 1939 how the world would change over the course of one and a half centuries, but we have our own true world history to compare with his brilliant imaginings, rendering For Us, The Living not merely a novel, but a time capsule view into our past, our present, and perhaps our future. The novel is presented here with an introduction by acclaimed science fiction writer Spider Robinson and an afterward by Professor Robert James of the Heinlein Society. SPIDER ROBINSON was born in New York and holds a bachelor’s degree in English from the State University of New York. He has won three Hugo Awards, a Nebula Award, and the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, among many others. Spider lives with his wife, Jeanne, in British Columbia, where they raise and exhibit hopes. ROBERT JAMES received his doctorate from UCLA in 1995. A veteran teacher, he lives in Los Angeles, California, with his two children and enough books to keep all three of them happy. He has published a number of articles on Robert Heinlein. If you are a fan of Robert Heinlein’s work, join the Heinlein Society at Heinlein society dot org. FOR US, THE LIVING A Comedy of Customs By Robert “A.” Heinlein With an Introduction by SPIDER ROBINSON and an Afterward by ROBERT JAMES, PH.D. SCRIBNER New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore SCRIBNER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020. Copyright (c) 2004 by The Robert A. and Virginia Heinlein Trust Introduction copyright (c) 2004 by Spider Robinson Afterward copyright (c) 2004 by Robert James, Ph.D. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Scribner and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon and Schuster, the publisher of this work. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon and Schuster Special Sales: 1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com. DESIGNED BY ERICH HOBBING. Text set in Janson Manufactured in the United States of America 13579 108642 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Heinlein, Robert A. (Robert Anson), date. For us, the living: a comedy of customs. by Robert A. Heinlein. p. cm. 1. Traffic accident victims, Fiction. 2. Twenty-first century, Fiction. 3. Time travel, Fiction. I. Title. PS3515.E288F67 2004 813’.54, dc22 2003065682 ISBN 0-7432-5998-X for Heinlein’s Children “It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated to the unfinished work that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, ” Lincoln at Gettysburg. Editor’s note. This novel was written by Robert Heinlein between 1938 and 1939 and was never edited while Heinlein was alive. While the novel is presented in its original form, minor editorial changes have been made for clarity and style. INTRODUCTION RAH DNA. “Any map of the world that does not include Utopia is not even worth glancing at.” Oscar Wilde. Most authorities are calling this book Robert “A.” Heinlein’s first novel. I avoid arguing with authorities, it’s usually simpler to shoot them, but I think it is something far more important than that, myself, and infinitely more interesting. But my disagreement is respectful, and I’m not prepared to dispute the point with sidearms, or even ripe fruit. Robert himself called For Us, The Living a novel, repudiating that label only once that I know of, in private correspondence, and the book clearly has at least as much right to be called a novel as, say, H. G. Wells’s When the Sleeper Wakes (Robert’s favorite novel, he once told me) or The Shape of Things to Come. But no more right. And those two volumes are from the last stage of Wells’s illustrious career, at the point when, in Theodore Sturgeon’s memorable phrase, the master had “sold his birthright for a pot of message.” They are not the books to give to a reader unfamiliar with H. G. Wells, and this is not the book to give to the hypothetical blind Martian hermit unfamiliar with Robert A. Heinlein’s work. Like the Wells titles, or Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward, this book is essentially a series of Utopian lectures, whose fictional component is a lovely but thin and translucent negligee, only half-concealing an urgent desire to seduce. At age thirty-two, Robert was already trying to save the world, and perfectly aware that the world was largely disinclined to be saved. If this were really a novel in the same sense as any of Robert’s other long works, one would be forced to call at least its fictional aspect deficient, for many of its characters, quite uncharacteristically, achieve little depth and behave oddly. Even in his most exotic settings, Robert’s characters, even, or perhaps especially, his aliens, were always, always real. And in real life, the standard response to a man who tells you he was born 150 years ago in a different body is not, we may as well admit, simply to nod and begin explaining to him how keen everything is nowadays, as do all the people that Perry Nelson meets in 2086. If one supposes, however, that none of these characters was ever intended, or needed, to be any more real than their colleague Mister A Square of Flatland, then one cannot help but be struck by how surprisingly much humanity, personality, and appeal they do manage to acquire for us, without ever shirking their lecturing duties. There is no question that by book’s end, Perry and his Diana are as real and alive as any other Heinlein couple, if more lightly sketched. Nonetheless, I submit that there was never a day in his life when Robert Anson Heinlein the fiction writer would have written a two-page footnote, and certainly not to introduce character development. To me, that detail alone is sufficient proof that he simply was not thinking in story terms when he sat down to compose For Us, The Living. That is why I say that it is so immensely much more than just his first novel. It is all of them, dormant. It seems clear to me, as he himself admitted, that Robert began this book with the perfectly honorable artistic intention of lying through his teeth: of disguising a series of lectures as fiction, purely in order to bring them to the attention of those who, finding the implication of their own imperfection upsetting, would not knowingly consent to be lectured. He succeeded brilliantly; one may agree or disagree with any of the theories and ideas he puts forth here, but one will most certainly and emphatically do one or the other: I defy anyone to lose interest in the middle of the argument, this despite the extreme complexity and, in some cases, sheer profundity of the ideas discussed. Perry is easily as good at his job as Mister A Square, and does it at much greater length and (ahem) depth. As thinly fictionalized lecture series, the book failed, for much the same reasons Robert himself had failed of election the previous year: in 1939, most of his ideas were, one is quite unsurprised to learn, wildly ahead of their time, radical, and opposed by powerful societal institutions. Nonetheless, though unpublishable then, its completion was an event of almost inexpressible importance in twentieth century English letters. Because here, I think, is what happened: On some unknown day in the first four months of 1939, Robert Anson Heinlein sat looking gloomily at a carbon of the manuscript that had just been rejected a second time and found himself thinking back over the whole long, painful period of its creation, the endless hours hunched over a typewriter, staring at a blank piece of paper until beads of blood formed on his forehead. And as he did so, two revelations came to him, in this order: First, he realized, with surprise and warm pleasure, that the most enjoyable, almost effortless part of the entire experience had not been the world-saving he’d set out to accomplish, not the logical theories, mathematical proofs, or clever arguments of which he was so proud , but the storytelling part, that he had intended only as a come-on for the crowd. All at once, I think, it came to him that the lecturer must remain standing in the square, on a rickety soapbox, and speak at the top of his lungs, and be heckled by boobs , but the storyteller sits in cross-legged comfort in the shade, and his listeners crowd round to hear him whisper, offering beer for his sore throat. And when he is done, they give him money, without him even asking. Second, he looked back over the lengthy and detailed imaginary future he had just thrown together as a set decoration, and saw the ideas stacked all round its empty stage , and realized it offered him a canvas so broad that, given enough time, he might contrive to spend all the rest of his working days in the sheer joy of telling stories, creating friends and heroes out of nothing, leaping across galaxies and inside hearts, and still end up putting across every insight and opinion he felt the world needed to hear. In that moment, he understood for the first time that he wanted to be a storyteller. That he wanted to be a science fiction writer. No, I’m wrong: he realized that he was a science fiction writer, and accepted his doom. In the terminology of Roger Zelazny’s immortal novel Lord of Light, he took on his Aspect, and raised up his Attribute, and was born a god. In that moment, he ceased being Bob Heinlein, shipwrecked sailor and unemployed engineer, and became RAH, the Dean of Modern Science Fiction, the Man Who Sold The Moon, Lazarus Long, who cannot die. In my dreams, I can almost imagine what it must have felt like. When he was good and ready, he announced the news to the rest of us, by sitting down in April and producing, first crack out of the box, one of the most unforgettable pieces of short fiction in the English language, “Lifeline.” Two years later, he was the Pro Writer Guest of Honor at Denvention, the Third World Science Fiction Convention in Denver, and everyone in that banquet hall already knew he owned the field. Five months after he gave his famous Guest of Honor speech on time-binding, “The Discovery of the Future,” Japan blindsided Pearl Harbor. But once that pesky distraction had been dispensed with, Robert turned his attention to the wow-science fiction literary world, and conquered that, too, with an ease, elegance, and speed that Hitler and Tojo could have learned from. But everything began on that unknown day or night sometime in early 1939, when Robert had his own personal equivalent of the blinding flash in which Nikola Tesla suddenly saw in his head a complete 3-D working model of the first-ever AC electric motor, correctly tuned and broken in, ready to be manufactured without delay for testing. The seeds of many of Robert’s major novels are clearly visible, here, needing only room and time to grow. The essential core of his entire career is implicit as DNA code buried in the pages of For Us, The Living: it constitutes an overflowing treasure chest of themes, ideas, theories, concepts, characters, and preoccupations he would draw on again and again for the next half century to inform his stories. Time travel; multiple identity; transcendence of physical death; personal privacy; personal liberty; personal and political pragmatism; using good technology for personal hedonistic comfort; balancing of privilege and responsibility; the arts, and especially new future artforms like dance in variable gravity; the metric system; rolling roads; then-unconventional loathing of racism, sexism, and anti-Semitism; Alfred Korzybski’s general semantics; alternate histories; the nature of sexual love; alternatives to monogamy and conventional marriage; spirituality; the pseudospirituality of the loathsome Nehemiah Cheney, excuse me, Scudder; The Crazy Years; space travel, the Moon, and Diaspora to the stars , it’s all here, nascent, in thumbnail view. So is that splendid, unmistakable voice. Robert’s ideas and opinions certainly evolved over time, particularly after he met his last wife, and this book is far from his last word on Utopia. But the differences themselves are fascinating and illuminating to any serious student of his work. It’s clear that, from the moment it finally dawned on him he was a storyteller, all Robert Heinlein really needed to produce that towering body of work that changed the world and put footprints on the Moon was time, typing paper, Virginia Gerstenfeld Heinlein, and a series of publishers’ royalty checks sufficient to keep them both smiling. He may not have consciously known, himself, just where his work would take him, in anything like the kind of detail this book prefigures. I rather hope not. But the work already knew. And now, thanks to Robert James, may he be as lucky in love as Lazarus, for as Long! And thanks to Michael Hunter, Eleanor Wood, and Sarah Knight, we all do. We are deeply in their debt. This may not (or may, I repeat: I won’t argue) be a novel in the classic sense, but to me it’s something more interesting. It’s a career in a box , a freeze-dried feast, a lifetime, latent in a raindrop , a lifework seed, waiting to be watered by our tears and laughter, RAH’s literary DNA, or half of it, at any rate. It’s worth remembering that this is one of the very few examples we’ll ever see of the writing of one of the century’s great lovers, the man who literally defined the word, love: the condition in which the welfare and happiness of another become essential to your own, before he met the love of his life. The difference is palpable; I’m not trying to offer a Zen koan when I say that it is in her very absence in this book that Ginny is perhaps even more present than in any other. One senses him yearning for her, straining to imagine her. The Portuguese word for “the presence of absence,” saudade, is the heart of fado, reading this book was an emotional as well as intellectual experience for me, is all I’m trying to say: I kept hearing Django play a bittersweet guitar as I turned the pages. To read this book is to know both Robert Heinlein and the late Virginia Heinlein much better, and that is something I’ve wanted to do all my adult life. Fate has brought an unexpected gift from beyond the grave, for us, the living. Spider Robinson Bowen Island, British Columbia 5 September 2003. Spider robinson dot com. FOR US, THE LIVING. Chapter One. “Look out!” The cry broke involuntarily from Perry Nelson’s lips as he twisted the steering wheel. But the driver of the green sedan either did not hear him or did not act. The next few seconds of action floated through his mind like slow motion. He saw the left front wheel of the green car float past his own, then the right wheel of his car crawled over the guard rail, his car slid after it and hung poised on the edge of the palisade. He stared over the hood and saw facing him the beach a hundred and thirty feet below. A blonde girl in a green bathing suit was catching a beach ball. She had jumped in the air to do it, both arms outstretched, one leg pointed. She was very graceful. Beyond her a wave broke on the sand. The crest hung and dripped whipped cream. He glanced back at the girl. She was still catching the beach ball. As she settled back on her feet, he drifted clear of the car and turned in the air away from her. Facing him were the rocks at the foot of the bluff. They approached as he watched them, separated and became individuals. One rock selected him and came straight toward him. It was a handsome rock, flat on one side and brilliant while in the sunshine. A sharp edge faced him and grew and grew and grew until it encompassed the whole world. Perry got up, shook his head, and blinked his eyes. Then he recalled the last few seconds with startling clarity and threw up his hands in convulsive reflex. But the rock was not in front of his face. There was nothing in front of his face but whirling snowflakes. The beach was gone and the bluff and the rest of his world. Nothing but snow and wind surrounded him, wind that cut through his light clothing. A gnawing pain in the midriff resolved into acute hunger. “Hell!” said Perry. Hell. Yes, hell it must be, cold instead of hot. He commenced to walk but his legs were weak under him and a giddiness assailed him. He staggered a few steps and fell on his face. He attempted to rise, but was too weak and decided to rest a moment. He lay still, trying not to think, but his confused brain still struggled with the problem. He was beginning to feel warmer when he found a solution. Of course! The girl in the green bathing suit caught him and threw him into the snow bank, soft snow bank, nice warm snow bank, nice, warm, “Get up” the girl in the green bathing suit was shaking him. “Get up! Hear me? Get up!” What did she want, to hell with games, just because she wanted to play games was no reason to slap a fellow’s face. He struggled to his knees, then fell heavily. The figure beside him slapped him again and nagged him until he rose to his knees, then steadied him and helped him to his feet. “Easy now. One arm over my shoulders. It’s not far.” “I’m all right.” “Don’t be a fool. Lean on me.” He looked down at the face of his companion and tried to focus his eyes. It was the girl in the green bathing suit, but what in hell was she doing dressed up like Admiral Byrd? Complete to the parka. But his tired brain refused to worry and he focused all of his attention on putting one icy leaden foot in front of another. “Mind the steps. Easy. Now hold still.” The girl sang one clear note and a door opened in front of them. He stumbled inside and the door closed. She guided him to a couch, made him lie down, and slipped away. Presently she returned with a cup of liquid. “Here. Drink this.” He reached for it, but his numbed fingers refused to grasp, and he spilled a little. She took the cup, lifted his head with her free arm, and held it to his lips. He drank slowly. It was warm and spicy. He fell asleep watching her anxious face. He awoke slowly, becoming aware of a deep sense of comfort and well-being almost before he was aware of his own ego. He lay on his back on a cushion as soft as a feather bed. A light cover was over him and as he stretched he became aware that he was ‘sleeping raw’. He opened his eyes. He was alone in a room of ample proportions possibly thirty feet long and oval in shape. Opposite him was a fireplace of quaint but pleasing pattern. It consisted of a vertical hyperboloid, like half a sugar loaf some ten feet high, which sprang out from the wall. In the base a mighty yawning mouth had been carved out, the floor of which was level and perhaps ten inches above the floor of the room. The roof of the mouth was another hyperboloid, hollow and eccentric to the first. On the floor of this gargantuan gape a coal fire crackled cheerfully and threw its reflections around the room. The room appeared almost bare of furniture except for the couch which ran two thirds of the way around the wall. He turned his head at a slight noise and saw her coming in the door. She smiled and hurried to him. “Oh, so you are awake. How do you feel?” One hand sought his pulse. “I feel grand.” “Hungry?” “I could eat a horse.” She giggled. “Sorry, no horses. I’ll soon have something better for you. But you mustn’t eat too much at first.” She straightened up. “Let me get out of these furs.” She walked away while fumbling with a zipper at her throat. The furs were all one garment which slipped off her shoulders and fell to the floor. Perry felt a shock like an icy shower and then a warm tingle. The fur coverall was her only garment and she emerged as naked as a dryad. But she took no note of it, simply picked up the coverall and glided to a cupboard, which opened as she approached, and hung it up. Then she proceeded to a section of the wall covered with a mural of Demeter holding a horn of plenty. It slid up, exposing an incomprehensible aggregation of valves, doors, and shiny gadgets. She kept very busy for some ten minutes, humming as she worked. Perry watched her in fascination. His amazement gave way to hearty appreciation for she was young, nubile, and in every way desirable. Her quick movements were graceful and in some way very cheerful and reassuring. Her humming stopped. “There!” she exclaimed, “All ready, if the invalid is ready to eat.” She picked up a laden tray and walked toward the far end of the room. The mural slid back into place and the shiny gadgets were gone. She set the tray on the couch, then pulled a countersunk handle. The handle came out in her hand, dragging with it a shelf perhaps two feet wide and four long. She turned back towards Perry and called, “Come, eat while it’s hot.” Perry started to get up, then stopped. She noticed his hesitation and a troubled look clouded her face. “What is the matter? Are you still too weak?” “No” “Sprain anything?” “No” “Then come, please. Whatever is the matter?” “Well, I, uh, you, see I,” How the hell do you tell a pretty girl who is naked as a jaybird that you can’t eat with her because you are naked too? Especially when she doesn’t seem to know what modesty is? She bent over him with obvious concern. Oh, the hell with it, said Perry to himself, and climbed out of bed. He swayed a little. “Shall I help you?” “No, thanks. I’m OK.” They sat down on opposite sides of the shelf table. She touched a button and a large section of the wall beside them slid up, exposing through glass a magnificent view. Across a canyon tall pines marched up a rugged mountainside. Up the canyon to the right some seven or eight hundred yards a waterfall hung a curtain of gauze in the breeze. Then Perry looked down, down a direct drop from the window. Vertigo shook him and again he hung poised on the palisade and stared over the hood of his car at the beach. He heard himself cry out. In an instant her arms were about him, consoling him. He steadied himself. “I’m all right,” he muttered, “But please close the shutters.” She neither argued nor answered, but closed them at once. “Now can you eat?” “Yes, I think so.” “Then do so and we will talk later.” They ate in silence. He examined his food with interest. A clear soup; some jelly with a meaty flavor; a glass of milk; light rolls spread with sweet butter; and several kinds of fruit, oranges, sugar-sweet and large as grapefruit, with a skin that peeled easily like a tangerine, some yellow fruit that he did not recognize, and black-flecked bananas. The dishes were light as paper but covered with a hard shiny lacquer. The fork and spoon were of the same material. Finally he dropped the last piece of rind and ate the last crumb of roll. She had finished first and had been leaning on her elbows, watching him. “Feel better?” “Immensely.” She transferred the dishes to the tray, walked over to the fireplace, dumped the load on the fire, and returned the tray to its rack among the shiny gadgets. (Demeter swung obligingly out of the way.) When she returned, she shoved the shelf-table back in its slot and extended a slender white tube. “Smoke?” “Thanks.” It was about four inches long and looked like some Russian atrocity. Probably scented, he thought. He inhaled gingerly, then drew one to the bottom of his lungs. Honest Virginia tobacco. The only thing in the house that seemed absolutely homey and normal. She inhaled deeply and then spoke. “Now then, who are you and how did you get onto this mountainside? And first, your name?” “Perry. What’s yours?” “Perry? A nice name. Mine’s Diana.” “Diana? I should think so. Perfect.” “I’m a little too cursive for Diana,” she patted her thigh, “but I’m glad you like it. Now how did you get lost out in that storm yesterday without proper clothes and no food?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know?” “No, you see, it was this way. I was driving down the palisade when a car tried to pass a truck on a hill coming towards me. I swung out to miss it and my right front wheel jumped the curb and over I went, car and all, the last I remember was staring down at the beach as I fell, until I woke up in the snow storm.” “That’s all you remember?” “Yes, and then you helping me, of course. Only I thought it was a girl in a green bathing suit.” “In a what?” “In a green bathing suit.” “Oh.” She thought for a moment. “What did you say made you go over the palisade?” “I had a blowout, I guess, when my wheel hit the curb.” “What’s a blowout?” He stared at her. “I mean that my tire blew out, when it struck the curb.” “But why would it blow out?” “Listen, do you drive a car?” “Well, no” “Well, if a pneumatic rubber tire strikes a sharp edge when you are going pretty fast, it’s likely to explode, blowout. In that case anything can happen. In my case I went over the edge.” She looked frightened, and her eyes grew wide. Perry added, “Don’t take it so hard. I’m not hurt.” “Perry, when did this happen?” “Happen? Why, yester, No, maybe.” “No, Perry, the date, the date!” “July twelfth. That reminds me, does it often snow here.” “What year, Perry?” “What year? Why, this year!” “What year, Perry, tell me the number.” “Don’t you know? Nineteen-thirty-nine.” “Nineteen-thirty-nine.” She repeated the words slowly. “Nineteen-thirty-nine. But what the devil is wrong?” She stood up and paced nervously back and forth, then stopped and faced him. “Perry, prepare yourself for a shock.” “OK, shoot.” “Perry, you told me that yesterday was July twelfth, nineteen-thirty-nine.” “Yes.” “Well, today is January seventh, twenty-eighty-six.” Chapter Two. Perry sat very still for a long moment. “Say that again.” “Today is January seventh, twenty-eighty-six.” “January, seventh, twenty, eighty, six, It can’t be, I’m dreaming, pretty soon I’ll wake up.” He looked up at her. “Then you’re not real after all. Just a dream. Just a dream.” He put his head in his hands and stared down at the floor. He was recalled to his surroundings by a touch on his arm. “Look at me, Perry. Take my hand.” She grasped his hand and squeezed it. “There. Am I real? Perry, you must realize it. I don’t know who you are or what strange thing happened to you but here you are in my house in January twenty-eighty-six. And everything is going to be all right.” She placed a hand under his chin and turned his face up to hers. “Everything is going to be all right. Place that in your mind.” He stared at her with the frightened eyes of a man who fears he is going crazy. “Now calm yourself and tell me about it. Why do you think that yesterday you were in nineteen-thirty-nine?” “Well, I was, I tell you, It had to be nineteen-thirty-nine, because it was, it couldn’t be anything else.” “Hum, That’s no help. Tell me about yourself. Your full name, where you live, where you were born, what you do and so forth.” “Well, my name is Perry Vance Nelson. I was born in Girard, Kansas in nineteen-fourteen. I’m a ballistics engineer and a pilot. You see I’m an officer in the navy. Up until today I was on duty at Coronado, California. Yesterday, or whenever it was, I was driving from Los Angeles to San Diego on my way back from a weekend when this guy in the green sedan crowds me and I crack up on the beach.” She smoked and considered this. “That’s clear enough. Except of course that it would make you one hundred and seventy-two years old and doesn’t explain how you got here. Perry, You don’t look that old.” “Well, what’s the answer?” “I don’t know. Did you ever hear of schizophrenia, Perry?” “Schizophrenia? Split personality.” He considered, then exploded. “Nuts! If I’m crazy it’s only in this dream. I tell you I am Perry Nelson. I don’t know anything about twenty-eighty-six and I know all about nineteen-thirty-nine.” “That gives me a notion. I want to ask you some questions. Who was president in nineteen-thirty-nine?” “Franklin Roosevelt.” “How many states in the union?” “Forty-eight.” “How many terms did La Guardia serve?” “How many? He was in his second term.” “But you just told me that Roosevelt was president.” “Sure. Sure. Roosevelt was president. La Guardia was Mayor of New York.” “Oh.” “Why did you ask that? Did La Guardia become president?” “Yes. Two terms. Who were the most popular television actors in nineteen-thirty-nine?” “Why, there weren’t any. Television wasn’t yet available. But listen, you are quizzing me about nineteen-thirty-nine. How do I know it’s twenty-eighty-six?” “Come here, Perry.” She walked over the wall beside the fireplace and another section of the wall slid out of view. Disconcerting, thought Perry, everything slips and slides, Several rows of books were exposed. She handed him a slim volume. Perry read Astronomical Almanac and Ephemerides 2086. Then she dug out an old volume whose pages were brown with age. She opened it and pointed to the title page: The Galleon of God, Sinclair Lewis, first printing, 1947. “Convinced?” “I guess I’ll have to be, Oh, God!” he threw his cigarette in the fire and paced nervously up and down. Presently he stopped. “Look, is there any liquor here? Could I have a drink?” “A drink, of what?” “Whiskey, brandy, rum. Anything with a jolt in it.” “I think I can take care of you.” She disturbed Demeter again and returned presently holding a square bottle filled with an amber liquid. She poured him three fingers in a cup and added a small yellow pill. “What’s that?” “Jamaica rum surrogate and a mild sedative. Help yourself. I’ve got an idea.” She left him and went to the far end of the room where she seated herself on the couch and pulled out a small panel set in the wall. It appeared to be the front of a drawer. She lifted up a screen approximately a foot square and pressed a series of buttons below. Then she spoke: “Los Angeles Archives? Diana 160-398-400-48A speaking. I request search of Los Angeles and Coronado newspapers of July 12, 1939 for report of automobile accident involving Perry Nelson, naval officer. Expedited rate authorized. Bonus on thirty minutes. Report back. Thank you, clearing line.” She left the drawer out and returned to Perry. “We will have to wait a while. Do you mind if I open the view now?” “Not at all. I’d like to see it.” They seated themselves at the west end of the room where they had eaten and the shutters peeled back. It was late afternoon and the sun was nearing the shoulder of the mountain. Snow lay in the canyon and the thin amber sunlight streamed through the pines. They sat quietly and smoked. Diana poured herself a cup of surrogate, and sipped it. Presently a green light flashed from the open drawer and a single deep gong note sounded. Diana pressed a button nearby and spoke, “Diana 400-48 answering.” “Archives reporting. Positive. Disposition request.” “Tele-vue-stat Reno station with tube delivery, destination G610L-400-48, expedite rate throughout, bonus on ten minutes. Thank you. Clearing.” “You mentioned Reno. Are we near there?” “Yes, we are about thirty kilometers south of Lake Tahoe.” “Tell me, is Reno still a divorce mill?” “A divorce mill? Oh, no, Reno is not, as you call it, a divorce mill. There are no such things as divorces anymore.” “There aren’t? What do a man and his wife do if they can’t get along together?” “They don’t live together.” “Rather awkward in case one of them should fall in love again, isn’t it?” “No, you see, Good heavens, Perry, what a lot there is to teach you. I don’t know where to start. However, I’ll just plunge in and try to answer your questions. In the first place, there isn’t any legal contract to be broken, not in your sense of the word. There are domestic contracts but they don’t involve marriage in the religious or sexual aspects. And any of these contracts can be dealt with like any other secular contract.” “But doesn’t that make a rather confusing situation, homes broken up, children around loose, what about children? Who supports them?” “Why they support themselves on their heritage.” “On their heritage? They can’t all be heirs.” “But they are, Oh, it’s too confusing. I’ll have to get some histories for you and a code of customs. These things are all bound up in major changes in the economic and social structure. Let me ask you a question. In your day what was marriage?” “Well, it was a civil contract between a man and a woman usually sealed by a religious ceremony.” “And what did this contract stipulate?” “It stipulated a lot of things not specifically mentioned, but under it the two lived together, she worked for him, more or less, and he supported her financially. They slept together and neither one was supposed to have love affairs with anybody else. If they had children they supported them until they were grown up.” “And what were the objects of this arrangement?” “Well, principally for the benefit of the children, I guess. The children were protected and given a name. Also women were protected and supported and looked out for when they were bearing children.” “And what did the man get out of it.” “He got, well, a family and home life, and someone to do his cooking, and a thousand other little services, and if you will pardon me mentioning it, he had a woman to sleep with any time he needed one.” “Let’s take the last first; was she necessarily the woman he wanted to ‘sleep’ with as you so quaintly put it?” “Yes, I suppose so, else he probably wouldn’t have asked her to marry him. No, by God, I know that is not true. It may be true when they first marry, but I know damn well that most married men see women every day that they would rather have than their own wives. I’ve watched ‘em in every port.” “How about yourself. Perry?” “Me? I’m not, I wasn’t married.” “Didn’t you ever see a woman you wanted to enjoy physically?” “Of course. Many of them.” “Then why didn’t you marry?” “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to be tied down.” “If a man didn’t have children to support and a wife to support would he be tied down by marriage?” “Why yes, in a way. She would expect him to do everything with her and would raise Cain if he stepped out with other women and would expect him to entertain her sisters and her cousins and her aunts, and would be sore if he had to work on their anniversary.” “Good Lord! What a picture you paint. I don’t understand all of your expressions but it sounds unbearable.” “Of course not all women are like that, some of them are good sports, man to man, but you can’t tell when you marry them.” “It sounds from your description as if men had nothing to gain by marriage but an available mistress. And tell me, weren’t there women for hire then at a lower cost than supporting one woman for life?” “Oh yes, certainly. But they weren’t satisfactory to most men. You see, a man doesn’t like to feel that a woman goes to bed with him just for the money in his pocket.” “But you just said that women married to be supported.” “That’s not quite what I meant. Or that’s not all, at least not usually. Anyhow it’s different. Besides men don’t always play the game. You see a man marries partially to have exclusive right to a woman’s attention, especially her body. But lots of them carry it to extremes. Marriage is no excuse for a man to slap his wife’s face for dancing twice with another man, as I’ve seen happen.” “But why should a man want to have exclusive possession of a woman?” “Well, he just naturally does. It’s in his nature. Besides a man wants to be sure his children aren’t bastards.” “We are no longer so sure, Perry, that such traits are ‘nature’ as you call them. And bastard is an obsolete term.” At this moment an amber light flashed at the other end of the room. Diana arose and returned shortly with a roll of papers. “They have arrived. Here, look.” She unrolled them and spread them on the shelf-table. Perry saw that they were photostatic copies of pages of the Los Angeles Times, Harold-Express, and Daily News for July 13, 1939. She pointed to a headline: NAVAL FLIER KILLED IN CAR CRASH. Torrey Pines, California July 12. Lieutenant Perry V Nelson, Navy pilot of Coronado, was killed today when he lost control of the car he was driving and plunged over the palisade here to his death on the rock below. Lieut. Nelson jumped or was thrown clear of the car but landed head first in a pile of loose rock at the foot of the cliff, splitting his skull. Death was instantaneous. Miss Diana Burwood of Pasadena was bathing on the beach below and narrowly escaped injury. She attempted to give first aid, then scaled the bluff and reported the accident with aid of a passing motorist. There were similar stories in the other papers. The Daily News included a column cut of Perry in uniform. Diana examined this with interest. “The story checks perfectly, Perry. This is just a fair likeness of you, however.” Perry glanced at it. “I should say that it wasn’t bad, considering the limitations of a half-tone reproduction.” “The surprising thing is that it looks like you at all.” “Why do you say that, Diana? Don’t you believe me?” His hurt showed plainly in his face. “Oh, no, no, I believe that you are telling the literal truth, insofar as you know it. But think, Perry. The head that was photographed to take this picture has, if this newspaper account is true, been dust for more than a century.” Perry stared at her and a look of horror crept into his eyes. He closed his eyes and clasped his head between his palms. He remained thus, face averted and body tensed for several minutes until he felt a gentle touch on his hair. Diana bent over him, pity and compassion in her eyes. “Perry, please. Listen to me. I didn’t mean to distress you. I wouldn’t hurt you intentionally. I want to be your friend if you will let me.” Gently she removed his hands from his temples. “It is a strange and marvelous thing that has happened to you, Perry, and I don’t understand it at all. In some ways it is horrible and certainly terrifying. But it could be much worse, much worse. This is not a bad world in which you have landed. I think it is a rather kindly world. I like it and I am sure it must be better than being crushed and broken at the foot of the palisades. Please, Perry, I’d like to help you.” He patted her hand. “You’re a good kid, Dian’, I’ll be all right. It’s the shock more than anything. The realization that all that world I know is dead and gone. I knew it of course when you told me what year it was, but I didn’t realize it until you pointed out to me that I’m dead, too, or at least that my body died.” He jumped to his feet. “But say! If my body is dead, where in God’s name did I get this!”, and he slapped his side. “I don’t know, Perry, but I have an idea.” “What is it?” “Not just yet. But we can start a little action toward finding out. Come with me.” She opened out the drawer containing the communication instrument, and pushed one button. A pretty red-headed girl appeared on the screen and smiled. Diana spoke. “Reno, please relay Washington, Bureau of records, Identification Sector.” “Check, Diana.” The red head faded out. “Does she know you?” “Probably recognized me. You will understand.” Shortly another face appeared, that of an iron grey studious man. Diana spoke. “Identification requested.” “Which one of you?” “Him.” “Check. Take position.” The face turned away and a camera-like apparatus appeared. “Put up your right hand, Perry,” whispered Diana. Perry did so. The grey haired man re-appeared. “Listen, how can I analyze if you don’t hold position? Haven’t you ever used a phone before?” “I, I guess not.” Perry looked confused. The slight irritation vanished from the man’s voice. “What’s the trouble, friend? Lost your continuity?” “I guess you’d call it that.” “That’s different. I’ll fix you up in no time. Then you’ll probably have no trouble to orient. Now do just as I tell you. Right hand, palm toward me about twenty centimeters from the screen. Down a little. Now just a hair closer. Your palm is tilted. Get it parallel to the screen. There. Hold it steady.” A soft shirring and a click. “That’s all. Do you want a full dossier or just name and number?” Diana cut in. “Brief of dossier, please, with last entry in full. Televuestat Reno station, tube delivery G610L-400-48, expedited rate.” “Charge to him when I get his number?” “No, to me, Diana, 160-398-400-48A.” “Oh! I thought I recognized you.” “This is private action.” Diana’s voice was cool and crisp. The man looked indignant, then his face became impassive. “Madam, I am an official clerk of the Bureau of Records. I thoroughly understand the spheres of public and private action, and my oath and charge.” Diana melted at once. “I’m sorry. I truly am. Please forgive me.” He relaxed and smiled. “Of course, Miss Diana. You probably have to insist on the spheres. But, if you will permit, it would be an honor to provide this service for you.” “No, please, make the routine charge. But may I do you some service?” She inclined her head. The clerk bowed in return. “A picture perhaps?” “If madam permits.” “My latest stereo. Face or full?” He bowed without speaking. “I’ll send both. They shall cross your brief in the tubes.” “You are very kind.” “Thank you. Clearing.” The screen went blank. “Well, Perry, we’ll know soon. But I must get the poor chap his pictures. I didn’t mean to offend him, but he was too touchy.” She returned in a moment with two thin sheets and started to roll them up. Noticing Perry’s interest, she paused. “Would you care to see them?” “Yes, of course.” The first picture was Diana’s face in natural colors with a half smile warming it. But Perry was startled almost into dropping it. For the portrait was completely stereoscopic. It was as if he were looking through a window of cellophane at Diana herself posed stationary three feet back of the frame. “How in the world are these done?” “I’m neither an optics student nor a photographer, but I know the picture really does have some depth to it. It’s a colloid about a half centimeter thick. It is done with two cameras, so it works only on one axis. Turn it around sideways.” He did so. The picture went perfectly flat although remaining a fine photograph. “Now tilt it about forty-five degrees.” He did so and had the upsetting sensation of watching Diana’s beautiful features melt and run until no picture was visible, but just an iridescence like oil on water. “You have to look at it along the right axis and within a narrow view angle, but when you do the two images blend in the stereo illusion. The brain inter rets the confused double image given by two separated eyes as depth and by duplicating that confusion, they achieve the illusion.” Perry stared at the picture a moment more and tilted and twisted it. Diana watched with interest and sympathetic amusement. “May I see the other picture?” “Here it is.” Perry glanced at it, then swallowed. He had grown accustomed to Diana’s nudity, more or less, and had been too much occupied mentally to think much about it, but nevertheless he had been aware of it in one corner of his mind all the time. Still, he was startled to discover that the second picture portrayed all of Diana in her own sweet simplicity, nothing more, and that it was as amazingly lifelike as the first, real enough to pinch. He swallowed again. “You intend to send this, er, uh, these pictures to a man you’ve just met on the phone.” “Oh, yes, he wants them and I can afford it. And I was a bit rude. Of course some people would think it a bit brash for me to give him anything as intimate as a facial portrait but I don’t mind.” “But, uh.” “Yes, Perry?” “Oh, well, nothing I guess. Never mind.” Chapter Three. Later while Diana monkeyed with the gadgets in the Demeter niche, the green light and gong note announced a tube delivery. “Get it, will you, Perry?” she called. “I’ve got both hands full.” Perry puzzled with the controls, then found a small lever that opened the receptacle. He brought over the roll to Diana. “Read it aloud, Perry, while I finish dinner.” He unrolled it and first noticed a picture of a young man who resembled his own memory of himself. He commenced to read. “Gordon 932-016-755-82A, Genes class JM, born 2057 July 7. Qualified and matriculated Arlington Health School 2075, transferred (approved) Adler Memorial Institute of Psychology 2077. Selected for research when Extra-sensory station was established by Master Fifield in 2080. Author of A Study of Deviant Data in Extra-Sensory Perception. Co-author (with Pandit Kalimohan Chandra Roy) of Proteus: a History of the Ego. Address Sanctuary (F-2), California. Unofficially reported in voluntary cororal abdication in 2083 August and transferred at the request of Sanctuary Council to inactive status 2085 August, body to remain in Sanctuary. Credit account on transfer to inactive 11,018 dollars and thirty two cents, less depreciation 9,803 dollars and nine cents, credit account re-entered with service deduction 9,802 dollars and nine cents less 500 dollars credit convenience book 9,302 dollars, and nine cents, enclosed.” Attached to the end of the roll was a small wallet or notebook. Inside Perry found that the leaves were money, conventional money, differing only slightly in size and design from money in 1939. In the back of the book was a pad of blank credit drafts, a check book. “What do I do with this stuff, Diana?” “Do with it? Anything you like, use it, spend it, live on it.” “But it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to this fellow Gordon something-or-other.” “You are Gordon 755-82.” “Me? The hell I am.” “You are, though. The Bureau of Records has already acknowledged it and has your account re-entered. You have the body listed as 932-016-755-82A. You can use any name you like, Perry, or Gordon, or George Washington, and the Bureau will gladly note the change in the record, but that number goes with that body and that credit account and they won’t change it. Of course you don’t have to spend it but if you don’t, nobody will, and it will just get bigger.” “Can’t I give it away?” “Certainly, but not to Gordon.” Perry scratched his head. “No, I guess not. Say, what is this voluntary abdication stuff?” “I’m not able to give a scientific account of it, but so far as anyone else is concerned it amounts to suicide by willing not to live.” “Then Gordon is dead?” “No, not according to the ideas of the people who monkey with these things. He simply was not interested in living here and chose to live elsewhere.” “How come his body is here okay?” “According to this report Gordon’s body, this body,” She pinched his cheeks. “, has been lying quietly in a state of arrested animation in the Sanctuary on the other side of this mountain. And so the mystery is partially cleared up.” His wrinkled brow showed no satisfaction. “Yes, I suppose so. But each mystery is explained with another mystery.” “There is just one mystery left that worries me, Perry, and that is why in the world you didn’t break a leg and maybe your brand-new neck in getting over here. But I’m glad you didn’t.” “So am I. Lord!” “But now I must get to work.” She stacked the supper dishes as she spoke. “What work?” “My paid work. I am not one of the ascetic souls that are content with their heritage checks. I’ve got to have money for ribbons and geegaws.” “What do you do?” “I’m a tele-vue actress, Perry. I dance and sing a little, and occasionally take part in stories.” “Are you about to rehearse?” “No, I go on the waves in about twenty minutes.” “Goodness, the studio must be close by or you’ll be late.” “Oh, no, it will be picked up from here. But you will have to be a good boy and sit still and not ask questions for a while or I shall be late. Come. Sit over here. Now face the receiver so.” Another section of the wall flew up and Perry faced a flat screen. “There you can see the whole performance and watch me dance directly too.” She opened the communicator drawer and raised the small screen. A rather homely debonair young man appeared. He wore a helmet with bulges over his ears. A cigarette drooped from one corner of his sardonic mouth. “Hi, Dian’.” “Hello, Larry. Where j’a get the circles under your eyes?” “That from you, and you so huffy about the private sphere of action. I had a blonde paint ‘em on.” “She got the left one crooked.” “Cut out the arcing and get down to work, wench. Got your setup made?” “Yeah.” “OK, testing.” Lights sprang out from the near end of the room. Diana walked to the center of the room, turned around twice, and walked back and forth and up and down, then returned to the communicator. “OK, Larry?” “There’s a halo in the lower left and it’s not in my side, I don’t believe.” “I’ll take a look.” She returned with the tube that had contained the Gordon dossier in her hand. “Gone now, Larry?” “Yeah, what was it?” “This.” She held up the tube. “Just like a female. Can’t integrate. Sloppy minds, unable to, ” “Larry, one more crack out of you and I’ll report you for atavism, probably Neanderthal.” “Cool down, small one. You have a super-magnificent brain. I love you for your intellect. Time’s running short. Want some music?” “Give it a blast. Okay, turn it off.” “What are you giving the mob tonight, Dian’?” “Highbrow stuff. Watch it, you might get an idea.” He glanced down at his controls. “Take your place, kid. I’m clearing.” Diana went quickly to the middle of the room and the lights went out. The larger screen facing Perry came suddenly to life. Facing him in stereo and color was a brisk young man, who bowed and smiled and commenced to speak: “Friends, we are again in the studios of the Magic Car et in the tower of the Edison Memorial overlooking Lake Michigan. We bring you tonight your favorite inter reter of the modern theme in dance, lovely Diana, who will present another stanza in the Poem of Life.” The colors on the screen melted together, then faded to a light blue and a single high clear crystal note impinged on Perry’s ears. The note trembled, then pursued a minor melody. Perry felt a mood of sadness and nostalgia creep over him. Gradually the orchestra picked up the theme and embroidered it while on the screen the colors shifted, blended, and ranged in patterns. Finally the colors faded and the screen went dark as the harmony wafted out of the music leaving a violin alone carrying the theme in the darkness. A dim finger of light appeared and picked out a small figure far back. The figure was prone, limp, helpless. The music conveyed a feeling of pain and despair and over powering fatigue. But another theme encouraged, called for effort, and the figure stirred gently. Perry glanced over his shoulder and had to exert self-control to refrain from going to the poor forlorn creature’s assistance. Diana needed help, his heart told him, go to her! But he sat quietly and watched and listened. Perry knew little about dancing and nothing about it as a high art. Ballroom dancing for himself and tap dancing to watch were about his level. He watched with intent appreciation the graceful, apparently effortless movements of the girl, without any realization of the training, study and genius that had gone before. But gradually he realized that he was being told a story of the human spirit, a story of courage, and hope, and love overcoming despair and physical hurt. He came to with a start when the dance ended leaving Diana with arms flung out, face to the sky, eyes shining, and smiling in joy as a single bright warm light poured over her face and breast. He felt happier than he had since his arrival, happy and relieved. The screen went dark, then the ubiquitous young man re-appeared. Diana cut him off before he spoke, switched on the room lights and turned to Perry. He was surprised to see that she appeared shy and fussed. “Did you like it, Perry?” “Like it? Diana, you were glorious, incredible. I, I can’t express it.” “I’m glad. “And now I’m going to eat and we can visit some more.” “But you just had dinner.” “You didn’t watch me closely. I don’t eat much before dancing. But now watch, I’ll probably get it down on the floor and worry it like an animal. Are you hungry?” “No, not yet.” “Could you drink a cup of chocolate?” “Yes, thanks.” A few minutes later they were seated on the couch, Diana with her legs curled up under her, a cup of chocolate in one hand, an enormous sandwich in the other. She ate busily and greedily. Perry was amused to think that this hungry little girl was that unearthly glorious creature of a few minutes before. She finished, hiccoughed, looked surprised and murmured, “Excuse me,” then wiped up with one finger a blob of mayonnaise which had dropped on her tummy and transferred it to her mouth. “Now, Perry, let’s take stock. Where are we?” “Damned if I know. I know where I am and when I am and you tell me that I know who I am. Gordon zip, zip, zip and six zeros, but I might as well be a day old baby as for knowing what to do about it.” “Not so bad as that, Perry. In addition to an identity you have acquired a nice credit account, not large but adequate and your heritage check will keep you going, too.” “What is this heritage check business?” “Let’s not go into that now. When you study the economic system you’ll understand. Right now it means a hundred and fifty dollars, more or less, every month. You could live comfortably on two-thirds of that, if you wanted to. What I wanted to talk about was the ‘what to do about it’ aspect.” “Where do we start?” “I can’t decide what you are to do about anything, but it seems to me that the very first thing to do is to bring you up to date so that you will fit in twenty-eighty-six. It is a rather different world. You must learn a lot of new customs and a century-and-a-half of history and a number of new techniques and so forth. When you are up to date, you can decide for yourself what you want to do, and then you can do anything you want.” “It sounds to me as if I’d be too old to want to do anything by that time.” “No, I don’t think so. You can start right away. I’ve got a number of ideas. In the first place, while I haven’t very many useful books in this house, I do have a pretty fair history of the United States and a short world history. Yes, and a dictionary and a fairly recent encyclopedia. Oh and I nearly forgot, an abridged code of customs that I had when I was a kid. Then I am going to call Berkeley and ask for a group of records on a number of subjects that you can play on the televue whenever you like. That will really be your most beneficial and easiest way to learn in a hurry.” “How does it work?” “It’s very simple. You saw my act in the televue tonight. Well, it’s just as easy to put a record on it and see and hear anything that you want to that has ever been recorded. If you wanted to, you could see President Berzowski open Congress in 2001 January. Or if you like, you could see any of my dances from records.” “I’ll do that first. To hell with history!” “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You will study until you are oriented. If you want to see me dance, I’ll dance for you.” “OK, right now.” She stuck out her tongue at him. “Be serious. Besides the records, I’ll think over who among my friends can help and I’ll get them to come talk with you and explain the things that I can’t.” “Why do you take all this trouble about me, Dian’?” “Why, anybody would, Perry. You were sick and cold and needed help.” “Yes, but now you undertake to educate me and set me on my feet.” “Well, I want to do it. Won’t you let me?” “Well, maybe. But look here, oughtn’t I to get out of your house and find some other place to stay?” “Why, Perry? You’re welcome here. Aren’t you comfortable?” “Oh, of course. But how about your reputation? What will people say?” “I don’t see how it could affect my reputation; you don’t dance. And what does it matter what people think, all they could think is that we were companions, if they bothered to think about it at all. Besides very few people except my friends will know. It is strictly in the private sphere of action. The custom is quite clear.” “What custom?” “Why, the custom which says that what people do out of public service or private employment is private as long as it doesn’t violate the other customs. Where people go, what they eat, or drink, or wear, or how they entertain themselves, or who they love, or how they play are strictly in the private sphere. So one must not print anything about it or broadcast it, or speak about it in a public place, without specific permission.” “Paging Walter Winchell! What in the world is in your newspapers?” “Lots of things. Political news and ships’ movements and public events and announcements of amusements and most anything about public officials, though their private sphere is much narrower. It’s an exception in the custom. And new creations in clothing and architecture and food and new scientific discoveries and lists of new televue records and broadcasts, and new commercial projects. Who’s Walter Winchell?” “Walter Winchell, why he was a, Dian’, I don’t think you will believe it but he made a lot of money talking almost entirely about things in what you call the private sphere of action.” She wrinkled her nose. “How disgusting!” “People ate it up. But look, how about your friends? Won’t they think it strange?” “Why should they? It isn’t strange. I’ve entertained lots of them.” “But we aren’t chaperoned.” “What’s ‘chaperoned’? Is it something like married?” “Oh Lord, I give up. Listen, Dian’, just pretend like we never said anything about it. I’ll be most happy to stay if you want me to.” “Didn’t I say I did?” They were interrupted by the appearance of a large grey cat who walked out to the middle of the floor, calmly took possession, sat down, curled his tail carefully around him, and mewed loudly. He had only one ear and looked like a hard case. Diana gave him a stern look. “Where have you been? Do you think this is any time to come home?” The cat mewed again. “Oh, so you’ll be fed now? So this is just the place where they keep the fish?” The cat walked over, jumped on the couch, and commenced bumping his head against Diana’s side while buzzing loudly. “All right. All right. Come along. Show me where it is.” He jumped down and trotted quickly over toward Demeter, tail straight as a smoke column on a calm day, then sat and looked up expectantly. He mewed again. “Don’t be impatient.” Diana held a dish of sardines in the air. “Show me where to put it.” The cat trotted over in front of the fire. “All right. Now are you satisfied?” The cat did not answer, being already busy with the fish. Diana returned to the couch and reached for a cigarette. “That’s Captain Kidd. He’s an old pirate with no manners and no morals. He owns this place.” “So I gathered. How did he get in?” “He let himself in. He has a little door of his own that opens up when he mews.” “For Heaven’s sakes! Is that standard equipment for cats these days?” “Oh no, it’s just a toy. He can’t let himself in my door. It opens only to my voice. But I made a record of the mew he used to let me know he wanted to come in the house and sent it to be analyzed and a lock set to it. Now that lock opens his own little door. I suppose that doors that open to a voice are somewhat marvelous to you, Perry?” “Well, yes and no, we had such things but they weren’t commercially in use. I’ve seen them work. In fact I believe that I could design one if I had to.” Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Really? I had no idea that technical advance was so marked in your day.” “We had a fairly involved technical culture, but unfortunately most of it wasn’t used. People couldn’t afford to pay for the things that the engineers could build, especially luxuries like automatic doors and television and such.” “Television isn’t a luxury. It’s a necessity. How else could one keep in touch? Why I would be helpless without it.” “Yes, no doubt you feel that way about it. People were beginning to say that about the telephone in my day. But the fact remains while we knew how to accomplish pretty fair television we didn’t because there was no market. People couldn’t afford it.” “I don’t see why not.” “I don’t know how to tell you. Perhaps I don’t see either, except in some way I can’t explain. But we did have a lot of unused or only partially used mechanical and technical knowledge. The application of any advance in invention or art was limited by whether or not there were people willing and able to pay for it. I served for a couple of years in one of the big aircraft carriers. There were boys in her, enlisted men, who used the most amazing technical devices, mechanical brains that could solve the most involved ballistic problems, problems in calculus using a round dozen variables, problems that would have taken an experienced mathematician days to solve. The machine solved them in a split second and applied the solutions, yet more than half of those boys came from homes that didn’t have bathtubs or central heating.” “How awful! How in the world could they stay clean and healthy in such houses?” “They couldn’t. I don’t suppose that I can make you realize just what the conditions were in which a lot of peopl

The Worlds of Robert “A.” Heinlein, Copyright 1966, Contents. Introduction: PANDORA’S BOX. Copyright 1952. FREE MEN, First time in print, BLOWUPS HAPPEN. Copyright 1940. SEARCHLIGHT. Copyright 1962. LIFE-LINE Copyright 1939. SOLUTION UNSATISFACTORY. Copyright 1940. INTRODUCTION: PANDORA’S BOX. ONCE OPENED, the Box could never be closed. But after the myriad swarming Troubles came Hope. Science fiction is not prophecy. It often reads as if it were prophecy; indeed the practitioners of this odd genre (pun intentional I won’t do it again) of fiction usually strive hard to make their stones sound as if they were true pictures of the future. Prophecies. Prophesying is what the weatherman does, the race track tipster, the stock market adviser, the fortune-teller who reads palms or gazes into a crystal. Each one is predicting the future sometimes exactly, sometimes in vague, veiled, or ambiguous language, sometimes simply with a claim of statistical probability, but always with a claim seriously made of disclosing some piece of the future. This is not at all what a science fiction author does. Science fiction is almost always laid in the future or at least in a fictional possible-future and is almost invariably deeply concerned with the shape of that future. But the method is not prediction; it is usually extrapolation and, or speculation. Indeed the author is not required to (and usually does not) regard the fictional “future” he has chosen to write about as being the events most likely to come to pass; his purpose may have nothing to do with the probability that these storied events may happen. “Extrapolation” means much the same in fiction writing as it does in mathematics: exploring a trend. It means continuing a curve, a path, a trend into the future, by extending its present direction and continuing the shape it has displayed in its past performance, meaning, if it is a sine curve in the past, you extrapolate it as a sine curve in the future, not as an hyperbola, nor a Witch of Agnesi and most certainly not as a tangent straight line. “Speculation” has far more elbowroom than extrapolation; it starts with a “What if?” and the new factor thrown in by the what-if may be both wildly improbable and so revolutionary in effect as to throw a sine-curve trend (or a yeast-growth trend, or any trend) into something unrecognizably different. What if little green men land on the White House lawn and invite us to join a Galactic union? or big green men land and enslave us and eat us? What if we solve the problem of immortality? What if New York City really does go dry? And not just the present fiddlin’ shortage tackled by fiddlin’ quarter-measures can you imagine a man being lynched for wasting an ice cube? Try Frank Herbert’s Dune World saga, which is not I judge prophecy in any sense, but is powerful, convincing, and most ingenious speculation. Living, as I do, in a state which has just two sorts of water, too little and too much we just finished seven years of drought with seven inches of rain in two hours, and one was about as disastrous as the other I find a horrid fascination in Dune World, in Charles Einstein’s The Day New York Went Dry, and in stories about Biblical-size floods such as S Fowler Wright’s Deluge. Most science fiction stories use both extrapolation and speculation. Consider “Blowups Happen,” elsewhere in this volume. It was written in 1939, updated very slightly for book publication just after World War II by inserting some words such as “Manhattan Project and “Hiroshima,” but not rewritten, and is one of a group of stories published under the pretentious collective title of The History of the Future (!) which certainly sounds like prophecy. I disclaim any intention of prophesying; I wrote that story for the sole purpose of making money to pay off a mortgage and with the single intention of entertaining the reader. As prophecy the story falls flat on its silly face any tenderfoot Scout can pick it to pieces but I think it is still entertaining as a story, else it would not be here; I have a business reputation to protect and wish to continue making money. Nor am I ashamed of this motivation. Very little of the great literature of our heritage arose solely from a wish to “create art”; most writing, both great and not-so-great, has as its proximate cause a need for money combined with an aversion to, or an inability to perform, hard writing offers a legal and reasonably honest way out of this dilemma. A science fiction author may have, and often does have, other motivations in addition to pursuit of profit. He may wish to create “art for art’s sake,” he may want to warn the world against a course he feels to be disastrous (Orwell’s 1984, Huxley’s Brave New World but please note that each is intensely entertaining, and that each made stacks of money), he may wish to urge the human race toward a course which he considers desirable (Bellamy’s Looking Backwards, Wells’ Men Like Gods), he may wish to instruct, or uplift, or even to dazzle. But the science fiction writer any fiction writer must keep entertainment consciously in mind as his prime purpose, or he may find himself back dragging that old cotton sack. If he succeeds in this purpose, his story is likely to remain gripping entertainment long years after it has turned out to be false “prophecy.” H G Wells is perhaps the greatest science fiction author of all time and his greatest science fiction stories were written around sixty years ago, under the whip. Bedfast with consumption, unable to hold a job, flat broke, paying alimony he had to make money somehow, and writing was the heaviest work he could manage. He was clearly aware, see his autobiography, that to stay alive he must be entertaining. The result was a flood of some of the most brilliant speculative stories about the future ever written. As prophecy they are all hopelessly dated, which matters not at all; they are as spellbinding now as they were in the Gay ‘Nineties and the Mauve Decade. Try to lay hands on his The Sleeper Awakes. The gadgetry in it is ingenious and all wrong. The projected future in it is brilliant and did not happen. All of which does not sully the story; it is a great story of love and sacrifice and blood-chilling adventure set in a matrix of mind-stretching speculation about the nature of Man and his Destiny. I read it first forty-five years ago, plus perhaps a dozen times since, and still reread it whenever I get to feeling uncertain about just how one does go about the unlikely process of writing fiction for entertainment of strangers and again finding myself caught up in the sheer excitement of Wells’ story. “Solution Unsatisfactory” herein is a consciously Wellsian story. No, no, I’m not claiming that it is of H G Wells’ quality its quality is for you to judge, not me. But it was written by the method which Wells spelled out for the speculative story: Take one, just one, basic new assumption, then examine all its consequences but express those consequences in terms of human beings. The assumption I chose was the “Absolute Weapon”; the speculation concerns what changes this forces on mankind. But the “history” the story describes simply did not happen. However the problems discussed in this story are as fresh today, the issues just as poignant, for the grim reason that we have not reached even an “unsatisfactory” solution to the problem of the Absolute Weapon; we have reached no solution. In the twenty-five years that have passed since I wrote that story the world situation has grown much worse. Instead of one Absolute Weapon there are now at least five distinct types an “Absolute Weapon” being defined as one against which there is no effective defense and which kills indiscriminately over a very wide area. The earliest of the five types, the A-bomb, is now known to be possessed by at least five nations, at least twenty-five other nations have the potential to build them in the next few years. But there is a possible sixth type. Earlier this year I attended a seminar at one of the nation’s new think-factories. One of the questions discussed was whether or not a “Doomsday Bomb” could be built a single weapon which would destroy all life of all sorts on this planet; one weapon, not an all-out nuclear holocaust involving hundreds or thousands of ICBMs. No, this was to be a world-wrecker of the sort Doctor E E Smith used to use in his interstellar sagas back in the days when S-F magazines had bug-eyed monsters on the cover and were considered lowbrow, childish, fantastic. The conclusions reached were: Could the Doomsday Machine be built? Yes, no question about it. What would it cost? Quite cheap. A seventh type hardly seems necessary. And that makes the grimness of “Solution Unsatisfactory” seem more like an Oz book in which the most harrowing adventures always turn out happily. “Searchlight” is almost pure extrapolation, almost no speculation. The gadgets in it are either hardware on the shelf, or hardware which will soon be on the shelf because nothing is involved but straight-forward engineering development. “Life-Line” (my first story) is its opposite, a story which is sheer speculation and either impossible or very highly improbable, as the What-If postulate will never be solved I think. I hope. But the two stories are much alike in that neither depends on when it was written nor when it is read. Both are independent of any particular shape to history; they are timeless. “Free Men” is another timeless story. As told, it looks like another “after the blowup” story but it is not. Although the place is nominally the United States and the time (as shown by the gadgetry) is set in the not-distant future, simply by changing names of persons and places and by inserting other weapons and other gadgets this story could be any country and any time in the past or future or could even be on another planet and concern a non-human race. But the story does apply here-and-now, so I told it that way. “Pandora’s Box” was the original title of an article researched and written in 1949 for publication in 1950, the end of the half-century. Inscrutable are the ways of editors: it appeared with the title ‘Where To?’ and purported to be a non-fiction prophecy concerning the year 2000 A.D. as seen from 1950. I agree that a science fiction writer should avoid marihuana, prophecy, and time payments but I was tempted by a soft rustle. Our present editor decided to use this article, but suggested that it should be updated. Authors who wish to stay in the business listen most carefully to editors’ suggestions, even when they think an editor has been out in the sun without a hat; I agreed. And reread “Where To” and discovered that our editor was undeniably correct; it needed updating. At least. But at last I decided not to try to conceal my bloopers. Below is reproduced, unchanged, my predictions of fifteen years back. But here and there through the article I have inserted signs for footnotes like this: (z) and these will be found at the end of the 1950 article, calling attention to bloopers and then forthrightly excusing myself by rationalizing how anyone, even Nostradamus, would have made the same mistake, hedging my bets, in other cases, or chucking in brand-new predictions and carefully laying them farther in the future than I am likely to live, and, in some cases, crowing loudly about successful predictions. So. WHERE TO? And Why We Didn’t Get There. Most science fiction consists of big-muscled stories about adventures in space, atomic wars, invasions by extra-terrestrials, and such. All very well but now we will take time out for a look at ordinary home life half a century hence. Except for tea leaves and other magical means, the only way to guess at the future is by examining the present in the light of the past. Let’s go back half a century and visit your grandmother before we attempt to visit your grandchildren. 1900: Mister McKinley is President and the airplane has not yet been invented. Let’s knock on the door of that house with the gingerbread, the stained glass, and the cupola. The lady of the house answers. You recognize her your own grandmother, Missus Middleclass. She is almost as plump as you remember her, for she “put on some good, healthy flesh” after she married. She welcomes you and offers coffee cake, fresh from her modern kitchen (running water from a hand pump; the best coal range Pittsburgh ever produced). Everything about her house is modern hand-painted china, souvenirs from the Columbian Exposition, beaded portieres, shining baseburner stoves, gas lights, a telephone on the wall. There is no bathroom, but she and Mr. Middleclass are thinking of putting one in. Mr. Middleclass’s mother calls this nonsense, but your grandmother keeps up with the times. She is an advocate of clothing reform, wears only one petticoat, bathes twice a week, and her corsets are guaranteed rust proof. She has been known to defend female suffrage but not in the presence of Mr. Middleclass. Nevertheless, you find difficulty in talking with her. Let’s jump back to the present and try again. The automatic elevator takes us to the ninth floor, and we pick out a door by its number, that being the only way to distinguish it. “Don’t bother to ring,” you say? What? It’s your door and you know exactly what lies beyond it Very well, let’s move a half century into the future and try another middle class home. It’s a suburban home not two hundred miles from the city. You pick out your destination from the air while the cab is landing you a cluster of hemispheres which makes you think of the houses Dorothy found in Oz You set the cab to return to its hangar and go into the entrance hall. You neither knock, nor ring. The screen has warned them before you touched down on the landing flat and the autobutler’s transparency is shining with: PLEASE RECORD A MESSAGE. Before you can address the microphone a voice calls out, “Oh, it’s you! Come in, come in.” There is a short wait, as your hostess is not at the door. The autobutler flashed your face to the patio where she was reading and sunning herself and has relayed her voice back to you. She pauses at the door, looks at you through one-way glass, and frowns slightly, she knows your old-fashioned disapproval of casual nakedness. Her kindness causes her to disobey the family psychiatrist; she grabs a robe and covers herself before signaling the door to open. The psychiatrist was right; you have thus been classed with strangers, tradespeople, and others who are not family intimates. But you must swallow your annoyance; you cannot object to her wearing clothes when you have sniffed at her for not doing so. There is no reason why she should wear clothes at home. The house is clean not somewhat clean, but clean and comfortable. The floor is warm to bare feet; there are no unpleasant drafts, no cold walls. All dust is precipitated from the air entering this house. All textures, of floors, of couch, of chair, are comfortable to bare skin. Sterilizing ultra-violet light floods each room whenever it is unoccupied, and, several times a day, a “whirlwind” blows house-created dust from all surfaces and whisks it out. These auto services are unobtrusive because automatic cut-off switches prevent them from occurring whenever a mass in a room is radiating at blood temperature. Such a house can become untidy, but not dirty. Five minutes of straightening, a few swipes at children’s fingermarks, and her day’s housekeeping is done. Oftener than sheets were changed in Mr. McKinley’s day, this housewife rolls out a fresh layer of sheeting on each sitting surface and stuffs the discard down the oubliette. This is easy; there is a year’s supply on a roll concealed in each chair or couch. The tissue sticks by pressure until pulled loose and does not obscure the pattern and color. You go into the family room, sit down, and remark on the lovely day. “Isn’t it?” she answers. “Come sunbathe with me.” The sunny patio gives excuse for bare skin by anyone’s standards; thankfully she throws off the robe and stretches out on a couch. You hesitate a moment. After all, she is your own grandchild, so why not? You undress quickly, since you left your outer wrap and shoes at the door (only barbarians wear street shoes in a house) and what remains is easily discarded. Your grandparents had to get used to a mid-century beach. It was no easier for them. On the other hand, their bodies were wrinkled and old, whereas yours is not. The triumphs of endocrinology, of cosmetics, of plastic surgery, of figure control in every way are such that a woman need not change markedly from maturity until old age. A woman can keep her body as firm and slender as she wishes and most of them so wish. This has produced a paradox: the United States has the highest percentage of old people in all its two and a quarter centuries, yet it seems to have a larger proportion of handsome young women than ever before. “Don’t whistle, son! That’s your grandmother.” This garden is half sunbathing patio, complete with shrubs and flowers, lawn and couches, and half swimming pool. The day, though sunny, is quite cold but not in the garden, nor is the pool chill. The garden appears to be outdoors, but is not; it is covered by a bubble of transparent plastic, blown and cured on the spot. You are inside the bubble; the sun is outside; you cannot see the plastic. She invites you to lunch; you protest. “Nonsense!” she answers, “I like to cook.” Into the house she goes. You think of following, but it is deliciously warm in the March sunshine and you are feeling relaxed to be away from the city. You locate a switch on the side of the couch, set it for gentle massage, and let the couch knead your troubles away. The couch notes your heart rate and breathing; as they slow, so does it. As you fall asleep it stops. Meanwhile your hostess has been “slaving away over a hot stove.” To be precise, she has allowed a menu selector to pick out an 800-calory, 4-ration-point luncheon. It is a random choice gadget, somewhat like a slot machine, which has in it the running inventory of her larder and which will keep hunting until it turns up a balanced meal. Some housewives claim that it takes the art out of cookery, but our hostess is one of many who have accepted it thankfully as an endless source of new menus. Its choice is limited today as it has been three months since she has done grocery shopping. She rejects several menus; the selector continues patiently to turn up combinations until she finally accepts one based around fish disguised as lamb chops. Your hostess takes the selected items from shelves or the freezer. All are prepared; some are pre-cooked. Those still to be cooked she puts into her well, her “processing equipment,” though she calls it a “stove.” Part of it traces its ancestry to diathermy equipment; another feature is derived from metal enameling processes. She sets up cycles, punches buttons, and must wait two or three minutes for the meal to cook. She spends the time checking her ration accounts. Despite her complicated kitchen, she doesn’t eat as well as her great grandmother did too many people and too few acres. Never mind; the tray she carries out to the patio is well laden and beautiful. You are both willing to nap again when it is empty. You wake to find that she has burned the dishes and is recovering from her “exertions” in her refresher. Feeling hot and sweaty from your nap you decide to use it when she comes out. There is a wide choice offered by the ‘fresher, but you limit yourself to a warm shower growing gradually cooler, followed by warm air drying, a short massage, spraying with scent, and dusting with powder. Such a simple routine is an insult to a talented machine. Your host arrives home as you come out; he has taken a holiday from his engineering job and has had the two boys down at the beach. He kisses his wife, shouts, “Hi, Duchess!” at you, and turns to the video, setting it to hunt and sample the newscasts it has stored that day. His wife sends the boys in to ‘fresh themselves, then says, “Have a nice day, dear?” He answers, “The traffic was terrible. Had to make the last hundred miles on automatic. Anything on the phone for me?” “Weren’t you on relay?” “Didn’t set it. Didn’t want to be bothered.” He steps to the house phone, plays back his calls, finds nothing he cares to bother with but the machine goes ahead and prints one message; he pulls it out and tears it off. “What is it?” his wife asks. “Telestat from Luna City from Aunt Jane.” “What does she say?” “Nothing much. According to her, the Moon is a great place and she wants us to come visit her.” “Not likely!” his wife answers. “Imagine being shut up in an air-conditioned cave.” “When you are Aunt Jane’s age, my honey lamb, and as frail as she is, with a bad heart thrown in, you’ll go to the Moon and like it. Low gravity is not to be sneezed at Auntie will probably live to be a hundred and twenty, heart trouble and all.” “Would you go to the Moon?” she asks. “If I needed to and could afford it.” He turns to you. “Right?” You consider your answer. Life still looks good to you and stairways are beginning to be difficult. Low gravity is attractive, even though it means living out your days at the Geriatrics Foundation on the Moon. “It might be fun to visit,” you answer. “One wouldn’t have to stay.” Hospitals for old people on the Moon? Lets not be silly. Or is it silly? Might it not be a logical and necessary outcome of our world today? Space travel we will have, not fifty years from now, but much sooner. It’s breathing down our necks. As for geriatrics on the Moon, for most of us no price is too high and no amount of trouble is too great to extend the years of our lives. It is possible that low gravity, one sixth, on the Moon, may not lengthen lives; nevertheless it may we don’t know yet and it will most certainly add greatly to comfort on reaching that inevitable age when the burden of dragging around one’s body is almost too much, or when we would otherwise resort to an oxygen tent to lessen the work of a worn-out heart. By the rules of prophecy, such a prediction is probable, rather than impossible. But the items and gadgets suggested above are examples of timid prophecy. What are the rules of prophecy, if any? Look at the graph shown here. The solid curve is what has been going on this past century. It represents many things use of power, speed of transport, numbers of scientific and technical workers, advances in communication, average miles traveled per person per year, advances in mathematics, the rising curve of knowledge. Call it the curve of human achievement. What is the correct way to project this curve into the future? Despite everything, there is a stubborn “common sense” tendency to project it along dotted line number one like the patent office official of a hundred years back who quit his job “because everything had already been invented.” Even those who don’t expect a slowing up at once, tend to expect us to reach a point of diminishing returns, dotted line number two. Very daring minds are willing to predict that we will continue our present rate of progress, dotted line number three-a tangent. But the proper way to project the curve is dotted line number four for there is no reason, mathematical, scientific, or historical, to expect that curve to flatten out, or to reach a point of diminishing returns, or simply to go on as a tangent. The correct projection, by all facts known today, is for the curve to go on up indefinitely with increasing steepness. The timid little predictions earlier in this article actually belong to curve one, or, at most, to curve two. You can count on the changes in the next fifty years at least eight times as great as the changes of the past fifty years. The Age of Science has not yet opened. AXIOM: A “nine-days’ wonder” is taken as a matter of course on the tenth day. AXIOM: A “common sense” prediction is sure to err on the side of timidity. AXIOM: The more extravagant a prediction sounds the more likely it is to come true. So let’s have a few free-swinging predictions about the future. Some will be wrong but cautious predictions are sure to be wrong. 1. Interplanetary travel is waiting at your front door C.O.D. It’s yours when you pay for it. “a.” 2. Contraception and control of disease is revising relations between sexes to an extent that will change our entire social and economic structure. (b) 5. The most important military fact of this century is that there is no way to repel an attack from outer space. (c) 4. It is utterly impossible that the United States will start a “preventive war.” We will fight when attacked, either directly or in a territory we have guaranteed to defend. (d) 5. In fifteen years the housing shortage will be solved by a “breakthrough” into new technology which will make every house now standing as obsolete as privies. (e) 6. We’ll all be getting a little hungry by and by. 7. The cult of the phony in art will disappear. So-called “modern art” will be discussed only by psychiatrists. 8. Freud will be classed as a pre-scientific, intuitive pioneer and psychoanalysis will be replaced by a growing, changing “operational psychology” based on measurement and prediction. 9. Cancer, the common cold, and tooth decay will all be conquered; the revolutionary new problem in medical research will be to accomplish “regeneration,” meaning, to enable a man to grow a new leg, rather than fit him with an artificial limb. (f) 10. By the end of this century mankind will have explored this solar system, and the first ship intended to reach the nearest star will be a-building. (g) 11. Your personal telephone will be small enough to carry in your handbag. Your house telephone will record messages, answer simple queries, and transmit vision. 12. Intelligent life will be found on Mars. (h) 13. A thousand miles an hour at a cent a mile will be commonplace; short hauls will be made in evacuated subways at extreme speeds. (i) 14. A major objective of applied physics will be to control gravity. ( j ) 15. We will not achieve a “world state” in the predictable future. Nevertheless, Communism will vanish from this planet. (k) 16. Increasing mobility will disenfranchise a majority of the population. About 1990 a constitutional amendment will do away with state lines while retaining the semblance. 17. All aircraft will be controlled by a giant radar net run on a continent-wide basis by a multiple electronic “brain.” 18. Fish and yeast will become our principal sources of proteins. Beef will be a luxury; lamb and mutton will disappear. (l) 19. Mankind will not destroy itself, nor will “civilization” be destroyed. (m) Here are things we won’t get soon, if ever: Travel through time. Travel faster than the speed of light “Radio” transmission of matter. Manlike robots with manlike reactions. Laboratory creation of life. Real understanding of what “thought” is and how it is related to matter. Scientific proof of personal survival after death. Nor a permanent end to war. (I don’t like that prediction any better than you do.) Prediction of gadgets is a parlor trick anyone can learn; but only a fool would attempt to predict details of future history (except as fiction, so labeled); there are too many unknowns and no techniques for integrating them even if they were known. Even to make predictions about overall trends in technology is now most difficult. In fields where before World War II there was one man working in public, there are now ten, or a hundred, working in secret. There may be six men in the country who have a clear picture of what is going on in science today. There may not be even one. This is in itself a trend. Many leading scientists consider it a factor as disabling as the nonsense of Lysenkoism is to Russian technology. Nevertheless there are clear-cut trends which are certain to make this coming era enormously more productive and interesting than the frantic one we have just passed through. Among them are: Cybernetics: The study of communication and control of mechanisms and organisms. This includes the wonderful field of mechanical and electronic “brains” but is not limited to it. These “brains” are a factor in themselves that will speed up technical progress the way a war does. Semantics: A field which seems concerned only with definitions of words. It is not; it is a frontal attack on epistemology that is to say, how we know what we know, a subject formerly belonging to long-haired philosophers. New tools of mathematics and log, such as calculus of statement, Boolean logic, morphological analysis, generalized symbology, newly invented mathematics of every sort there is not space even to name these enormous fields, but they offer us hope in every other field medicine, social relations, biology, economics, anything. Biochemistry: Research into the nature of protoplasm, into enzyme chemistry, viruses, etc., give hope not only that we may conquer disease, but that we may someday understand the mechanisms of life itself. Through this, and with the aid of cybernetic machines and radioactive isotopes, we may eventually acquire a rigor of chemistry. Chemistry is not a discipline today; it is a jungle. We know that chemical behavior depends on the number of orbital electrons in an atom and that physical and chemical properties follow the pattern called the Periodic Table. We don’t know much else, save by cut-and-try, despite the great size and importance of the chemical industry. When chemistry becomes a discipline, mathematical chemists will design new materials, predict their properties, and tell engineers how to make them without ever entering a laboratory. We’ve got a long way to go on that one! Nucleonics: We have yet to find out what makes the atom tick. Atomic power? Yes, we’ll have it, in convenient packages when we understand the nucleus. The field of radioisotopes alone is larger than was the entire known body of science in 1900. Before we are through with these problems, we may find out how the universe is shaped and why. Not to mention enormous unknown vistas best represented by? Some physicists are now using two time scales, the T-scale, and the tau-scale. Three billion years on one scale can equal an incredibly split second on the other scale and yet both apply to you and your kitchen stove. Of such anarchy is our present state in physics. For such reasons we must insist that the Age of Science has not yet opened. The greatest crisis facing us is not Russia, not the Atom bomb, not corruption in government, not encroaching hunger, nor the morals of young. It is a crisis in the organization and accessibility of human knowledge. We own an enormous “encyclopedia” which isn’t even arranged alphabetically. Our “file cards” are spilled on the floor, nor were they ever in order. The answers we want may be buried somewhere in the heap, but it might take a lifetime to locate two already known facts, place them side by side and derive a third fact, the one we urgently need. Call it the Crisis of the Librarian. We need a new “specialist who is not a specialist, but a synthesist. (n) We need a new science to be the perfect secretary to all other sciences. But we are not likely to get either one in a hurry and we have a powerful lot of grief before us in the meantime. Fortune-tellers can always be sure of repeat customers by predicting what the customer wants to hear, it matters not whether the prediction comes true. Contrariwise, the weatherman is often blamed for bad weather. Brace yourself. In 1900 the cloud on the horizon was no bigger than a man’s hand but what lay ahead was the Panic of 1907, World War One, the panic following it, the Depression, Fascism, World War Two, the Atom Bomb, and Red Russia. Today the clouds obscure the sky, and the wind that overturns the world is sighing in the distance. The period immediately ahead will be the roughest, cruelest one in the long, hard history of mankind. It will probably include the worst World War of them all. It might even end with a war with Mars, God save the mark! Even if we are spared that fantastic possibility, it is certain that there will be no security anywhere, save what you dig out of your own inner spirit. But what of that picture we drew of domestic luxury and tranquillity for Missus Middleclass, style 2000 A.D.? She lived through it. She survived. Our prospects need not dismay you, not if you or your kin were at Bloody Nose Ridge, at Gettysburg or trudged across the Plains. You and I are here because we carry the genes of uncountable ancestors who fought and won against death in all its forms. We’re tough. We’ll survive. Most of us. We’ve lasted through the preliminary bouts; the main event is coming up. But it’s not for sissies. The Last thing to come fluttering out of Pandora’s box was Hope without which men die. The gathering wind will not destroy everything, nor will the Age of Science change everything. Long after the first star ship leaves for parts unknown, there will still be outhouses in upstate New York, there will still be steers in Texas, and no doubt the English will still stop for tea. Afterthoughts, fifteen years later. (a) And now we are paying for it and the cost is high. But, for reasons understandable only to bureaucrats, we have almost halted development of a nuclear-powered spacecraft when success was in sight. Never mind; if we don’t, another country will. By the end of this century space travel will be cheap. (b) This trend is so much more evident now than it was fifteen years ago that I am tempted to call it a fulfilled prophecy. Vast changes in sex relations are evident all around us with the oldsters calling it “moral decay” and the youngsters ignoring them and taking it for granted. Surface signs: books such as “Sex and the Single Girl” are smash hits; the formerly-taboo four-letter words are now seen both in novels and popular magazines; the neologism “swinger” has come into the language; courts are conceding that nudity and semi-nudity are now parts of the mores. But the end is not yet; this revolution will go much farther and is now barely started. The most difficult speculation for a science fiction writer to undertake is to imagine correctly the secondary implications of a new factor. Many people correctly anticipated the coming of the horseless carriage; some were bold enough to predict that everyone would use them and the horse would virtually disappear. But I know of no writer, fiction or non-fiction, who saw ahead of time the vast change in the courting and mating habits of Americans which would result primarily from the automobile a change which the diaphragm and the oral contraceptive merely confirmed. So far as I know, no one even dreamed of the change in sex habits the automobile would set off. There is some new gadget in existence today which will prove to be equally revolutionary in some other way equally unexpected. You and I both know of this gadget, by name and by function but we don’t know which one it is nor what its unexpected effect will be. This is why science fiction is not prophecy and why fictional speculation can be so much fun both to read and to write. (c) I flatly stand by this one. True, we are now working on Nike-Zeus and Nike-X and related systems and plan to spend billions on such systems and we know that others are doing the same thing. True, it is possible to hit an object in orbit or trajectory. Nevertheless this prediction is as safe as predicting tomorrow’s sunrise. Anti-aircraft fire never stopped air attacks; it simply made them expensive. The disadvantage in being at the bottom of a deep “gravity well” is very great; gravity gauge will be as crucial in the coming years as wind gauge was in the days when sailing ships controlled empires. The nation that controls the Moon will control the Earth but no one seems willing these days to speak that nasty fact out loud. (d) Since 1950 we have done so in several theaters and are doing so as this is written, in Viet Nam. “Preventive” or “pre-emptive” war seems as unlikely as ever, no matter who is in the White House. Here is a new prediction: World War Three, as a major, all-out war, will not take place at least until 1980 and could easily hold off until 2000. This is a very happy prediction compared with the situation in 1950, as those years of grace may turn up basic factors which (hopefully!) might postpone disaster still longer. We were much closer to ultimate disaster around 1955 than we are today much closer indeed than we were at the time of the Cuban Confrontation in 1962. But the public never knew it. All in all, things look pretty good for survival, for the time being and that is as good a break as our ancestors ever had. It was far more dangerous to live in London in 1664 to 5 than it is to live in a city threatened by H-bombs today. (e) Here I fell flat on my face. There has been no breakthrough in housing, nor is any now in prospect instead the ancient, wasteful methods of building are now being confirmed by public subsidies. The degree of our backwardness in this field is hard to grasp; we have never seen a modern house. Think what an automobile would be if each one were custom-built from materials fetched to your home what would it look like, what would it do, and how much would it cost. But don’t set the cost lower than 100,000 dollars, nor the speed higher than 10 miles per hour, if you want to be realistic about the centuries of difference between the housing industry and the automotive industry. I underestimated, through wishful thinking, the power of human stupidity, a fault fatal to prophecy. (f) In the meantime spectacular progress has been made in organ transplants and the problem of regeneration is related to this one. Biochemistry and genetics have made a spectacular breakthrough in “cracking the genetic code.” It is a tiny crack, however, with a long way to go before we will have the human chromosomes charted and still longer before we will be able to “tailor” human beings by gene manipulation. The possibility is there but not by year 2000. This is probably just as well. If we aren’t bright enough to build decent houses, are we bright enough to play God with the architecture of human beings? (g) Our editor suggested that I had been too optimistic on this one but I still stand by it. It is still thirty-five years to the end of the century. For perspective, look back thirty-five years to 1930 the American Rocket Society had not yet been founded then. Another curve, similar to the one herewith in shape but derived entirely from speed of transportation, extrapolates to show faster-than-light travel by year 2000. I guess I’m chicken, for I am not predicting FTL ships by then, if ever. But the prediction still stands without hedging. (h) Predicting intelligent life on Mars looks pretty silly after those dismal photographs. But I shan’t withdraw it until Mars has been thoroughly explored. As yet we really have no idea and no data as to just how ubiquitous and vaned life may be in this galaxy; it is conceivable that life as we don’t know it can evolve on any sort of a planet, and nothing in our present knowledge of chemistry rules this out. All the talk has been about life-as-we-know-it-which means terrestrial conditions. But if you feel that this shows in me a childish reluctance to give up thoats and zitidars and beautiful Martian princesses until forced to, I won’t argue with you I’ll just wait. (i) I must hedge number thirteen; the “cent” I meant was scaled by the 1950 dollar. But our currency has been going through a long steady inflation, and no nation in history has ever gone as far as we have along this route without reaching the explosive phase of inflation. Ten-dollar hamburgers? Brother, we are headed for the hundred-dollar hamburger for the barter-only hamburger. But this is only an inconvenience rather than a disaster as long as there is plenty of hamburger. (j) This prediction stands. But today physics is in a tremendous state of flux with new data piling up faster than it can be digested; it is anybody’s guess as to where we are headed, but the wilder you guess, the more likely you are to hit it lucky. With “elementary particles” of nuclear physics now totaling about half the number we used to use to list the “immutable” chemical elements, a spectator needs a program just to keep track of the players. At the other end of the scale, “quasars” quasi-stellar bodies have come along; radio astronomy is now bigger than telescopic astronomy used to be; and we have redrawn our picture of the universe several times, each time enlarging it and making it more complex I haven’t seen this week’s theory yet, which is well, as it would be out of date before this gets into print. Plasma physics was barely started in 1950; the same for solid-state physics. This is the Golden Age of physics and it’s an anarchy. (k) I stand flatly behind prediction number fifteen. (I) I’ll hedge number eighteen just a little. Hunger is not now a problem in the USA and need not be in the year 2000 but hunger as a world problem and problem for us if we were conquered, a distinct possibility by 2000. Between our present status and that of subjugation lies a whole spectrum of political and economic possible shapes to the future under which we would share the worldwide hunger to a greater or lesser extent. And the problem grows. We can expect to have to feed around half a billion Americans circa year 2000-our present huge surpluses would then represent acute shortages even if we never shipped a ton of wheat to India. (m) I stand by prediction number nineteen. I see no reason to change any of the negative predictions which follow the numbered affirmative ones. They are all conceivably possible; they are all wildly unlikely by year 2000. Some of them are debatable if the terms are defined to suit the affirmative side definitions of “life” and “manlike,” for example. Let it stand that I am not talking about an amino acid in one case, nor a machine that plays chess in the other. (n) Today the forerunners of these synthesists are already at work in many places. Their titles may be anything; their degrees may be in anything or they may have no degrees. Today they are called “operations researchers,” or sometimes “systems development engineers,” or other interim tags. But they are all interdisciplinary people, generalists, not specialists the new Renaissance Man. The very explosion of data which forced most scholars to specialize very narrowly created the necessity which evoked this new non-specialist. So far, this “unspecialty” is in its infancy; its methodology is inchoate, the results are sometimes trivial, and no one knows how to train to become such a man. But the results are often spectacularly brilliant, too this new man may yet save all of us. I’m an optimist. I have great confidence in Homo Sapiens. We have rough times ahead but when didn’t we? Things have always been “tough all over.” H-bombs, Communism, race riots, water shortage, all nasty problems. But not basic problems, merely current ones. We have three basic and continuing problems: The problem of population explosion; the problem of data explosion; and the problem of government. Population problems have a horrid way of solving themselves when they are not solved rationally; the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are always saddled up and ready to ride. The data explosion is now being solved, mostly by cybernetics’ and electronics’ men rather than by librarians and if the solutions are less than perfect, at least they are better than what Grandpa had to work with. The problem of government has not been solved either by the ‘Western Democracies” or the “Peoples’ Democracies,” as of now. Anyone who thinks the people of the United States have solved the problem of government is using too short a time scale. The peoples of the world are now engaged in a long, long struggle with no end in sight, testing whether one concept works better than another; in that conflict millions have already died and it is possible that hundreds of millions will die in it before year 2000. But not all. I hold both opinions and preferences as to the outcome. But my personal preference for a maximum of looseness is irrelevant; what we are experiencing is an evolutionary process in which personal preference matters, at most, only statistically. Biologists, ecologists in particular are working around to the idea that natural selection and survival of the fittest is a notion that applies more to groups and how they are structured than it does to individuals. The present problem will solve itself in the cold terms of revolutionary survival, and in the course of it both sides will make changes in group structure. The system that survives might be called “Communism” or it might be called “Democracy” (the latter is my guess) but one thing we can be certain of: it will not resemble very closely what either Marx or Jefferson had in mind. Or it might be called by some equally inappropriate neologism; political tags are rarely logical. For Man is rarely logical. But I have great confidence in Man, based on his past record. He is mean, ornery, cantankerous, illogical, emotional and amazingly hard to kill. Religious leaders have faith in the spiritual redemption of Man; humanist leaders subscribe to a belief in the perfectibility of Man through his own efforts; but I am not discussing either of these two viewpoints. My confidence in our species lies in its past history and is founded quite as much on Man’s so-called vices as on his so-called virtues. When the chips are down, quarrelsomeness and selfishness can be as useful to the survival of the human race as is altruism, and pig-headedness can be a trait superior to sweet reasonableness. If this were not true, these “vices” would have died out through the early deaths of their hosts, at least a half million years back. I have a deep and abiding confidence in Man as he is, imperfect and often unlovable, plus still greater confidence in his potential. No matter how tough things are, Man copes. He comes up with adequate answers from illogical reasons. But the answers work. Last to come out of Pandora’s Box was a gleaming, beautiful thing eternal Hope.

Rahan. Episode Forty One. The Clay Cliff. The rain flowed inside the cave and the son of Crao, drawing furrows within the ground, amused himself channeling these rivulets. Rahan can direct the water wherever he wants! The storm ceased as suddenly as it had broken out and the sun returned, setting the distant red mountains ablaze. The son of wild ages walked for a long time before arriving in sight of a river. As he was covered in mud he wanted to bathe. Page Two: A moment later he made a strange discovery. Jars and earthenware dishes of all kinds were lying at the bottom of the river! Rahan knew that certain clans had the art of fashioning such objects. But why had these been abandoned at the river? Rahan must be very close to a village. Rahan wants to know! Shortly after, he discovered a curious landscape. The shore crossed an immense plateau. Men were busy near the fire which surrounded a large pit. Others were on the lookout near a staircase cut into the side of the earthen cliff. Page Three: These watchers suddenly let out a cry and the whole clan, panicked, took refuge in the cave. Gramh arrives! Gramh arrives! Rahan glimpsed in the plain, a group of hunters heading towards the valley. The “Cliff Clan” seems to fear the Forest Clan! Shortly after the hunters climbed the clay stairs. Their leader rested on the plateau. Show yourself, Tabara! Do not stay down like a coward! A man, undoubtedly the leader of the cliff clan, came out of the cave, carrying a large jar. Tabara, fearful, came to place the offering at the feet of Gramh. We can only offer you this jar, Gramh! Just one jar! You will not mock us for long Tabara! Page Four: And if tomorrow we don't have ten similar jars. Woe to yours! Smash! To destroy an object that required days of work in this way, you must be a hunter without brains! Oh! Who are you? Tabara stepped back, surprised and worried. Gramh growled in fury. I am Rahan, the son of Crao. And Rahan despises the savagery of your kind! I will break your skull like I broke this jar! He launched himself, axe high. But his attack was immediately stopped. Gramh is very vain! Crack! The two men rolled on the ground very close to the large pit where the fire was crackling. Gaining the upper hand, Rahan suddenly snatched his opponent's ax. Page Five: It is Rahan who could break your skull! But Rahan does not like to steal the life of "Those-Who-Walk-Upright"! The axe fluttered into the blaze. But you follow the path of this weapon if your hunters make one more move. Gramh's men had raised their spears. But their leader was at the mercy of the son of fierce ages. Go back down to the plain! Return to your people! Obey, and Rahan will spare Gramh! Rahan only released Gramh when the hunters were far into the wilderness. You humiliated Gramh! But Gramh will take revenge! A little later. Rahan was courageous in taking the side of our clan. But I fear Gramh will take cruel revenge against Rahan and against us. Page Six: Tabara explained how, thanks to the red earth, his people had become masters in the art of pottery. The ancients taught us how to use fire to. Harden earth objects. Rahan finally understood the role of this pit surrounded by the blaze. But why is the cliff clan abandoning these wonderful objects? At the river? Tabara gave a hint of sadness and his gaze became distant. We are not abandoning them. We hide them! Otherwise the Gramh horde would steal them from us! Argh! Things have changed a lot since this brute became leader of the “Clan below”! Tabara recalled the happy times when the two clans lived in peace. At that time “Those below” brought us meat. And we gave them in exchange the objects they needed. Page Seven: But Gramh came! He always demands earthen objects, but he never brings more meat! It was his hunters who dug a path in the cliff. This makes it easy for them to hoist themselves onto the plateau. Whereas, without this path, they would have to go around the mountain for days! Since Gramh is disloyal, why do you not destroy this path? Tabara has thought about it! But he knows that Gramh's anger would be terrible! And Tabara does not want to sacrifice his own! Tabara is a wise leader. But Gramh abuses his wisdom. Rahan does not like it! The son of Crao was moved and observed these men and women who were modeling the clay. He guessed they were defenseless against the robust hunters of Gramh. Page Eight: Rahan hates seeing “Those-Who-Walk-Upright” clash! But he knows that if you give in to fear, Gramh will demand even more objects. Always more objects! Tabara knows this too! But what can he do? Only one thing will prove to “Those Below” that the cliff clan does not fear them! Gramh broke a magnificent jar. He should pay for this stupid act! The men of the clan nodded silently but their eyes still expressed doubt and fear. But the son of Crao was able to convince himself because, that night. Fear nothing Tabara! Everything will be fine! Rahan and Tabara arrived at the bottom of the clay staircase. This is the first time in many moons that a man of our clan has dared to tread on the territory of “Those Below”. Page Nine: Perhaps Tabara should not have listened to Rahan! It is madness to go and challenge Gramh in his camp! From the top of the Cliff, the two men could be observed running towards the forest. The sense of smell of the son of the wild-ages was such that it only took him a moment to orient himself. This way Tabara! Gramh and his hunters are grilling meat! Indeed, a little later. Today Gramh met “The Fire-Haired Enemy” on the terrace! But tomorrow Gramh will take revenge! We will climb the cliff and we will kill Tabara and ten of his men! Rahan and Tabara were crawling in the brush around the fire. Look! This is their game reserve! In an enclosure made of trunks were herded enormous wild boars. The smile of the son of Crao shone. We will prove to Gramh that we are not afraid of him! Page Ten: A moment later he cut the vines holding the trunks. Back Tabara! Backward! The wild boars rushed towards the breach while the hunters, alerted by the noises, came running. The “Two-tooths” are running away! Gramh and his men were unable to stop the pack, which disappeared into the forest. An entire hunting season lost! But how did the “Two-Tooths” escape? A distant voice answered Gramh. For many moons you have tormented the clan of the cliff, Gramh! But this night is the last of your reign! What we have just done is just the beginning! We will retaliate for every one of your bad deeds from now on! Page Eleven: Gramh had recognized the voice. The “Enemy-with-fire-Hair”! He dared to come and challenge us in the forest! Woe to him! Gramh replied. It has been twice that you have opposed us “Man-From-Elsewhere”! Next time, you will go to the “Territory of Shadows”! Rahan and Tabara do not hear. Already far away, they were about to leave the forest when. A “Two-Teeth”! A large boar charged them. Don't move, Tabara. Rahan knows how to defeat the "Two-Tooths"! Worried and yet admiring, the leader of the cliff clan saw his companion stand in front of the beast which was bearing down on him, head down. Page Twelve: Ra-ha-ha! At the moment he was about to be knocked down, Rahan jumped. The blade of his knife disappeared into the boar's spine! The two teeth collapsed like lightning. Ah if my brothers had the audacity and agility of Rahan, we would hunt ourselves! We would no longer be at the mercy of Gramh! Rahan will teach your people to hunt! In the meantime, let's bring them back this "Two Teeth"! But it belongs to Gramh! The jar that Gramh stupidly broke belonged to Tabara! That Jar was worth a “Two Teeth” do you not think? Rahan is right! The beast was heavy. The two men had great difficulty dragging her to the foot of the clay cliff. Cries of joy and amazement greeted their return. Page Thirteen: The boar was hoisted up using strong lines. This is how we mounted the game and brought down the objects. When peace reigned between our clan and that of the hunters! A little later. You have seen that it is possible to resist Gramh! You must prove to this savage that you do not fear him! Hum. We don't know how to fight any more than we know how to hunt! What will we do when Gramh attacks us? Because you have heard: his clan will come. And tomorrow kill ten of ours! When Tabara and his men took refuge in their cave. The son of Crao gazed for a long time at the cliff lit by the moon. They are right! They do not know how to hunt or fight! And Rahan will not be able to face Gramh's hunters alone! Page Fourteen: The cliff clan could abandon this territory. But where would they find the “land-to-make-objects”? No, running away is not a solution! We must at all costs make the hunters below listen to reason! The son of Crao was meditating and his gaze wandered over the plain. On the staircase carved in the clay, on the river. And suddenly his face relaxed. Rahan knows how to repel hunters! He saw himself again, having fun digging furrows which channeled the small rivulets of water. Rahan can direct the water wherever he wants! A moment later, he entrusted his project to Tabara. But where do you come from to have such curious, wonderful ideas!? Page Fifteen: Rahan just observes nature. He remembers what he sees and it is often very useful to him! Tabara was already giving orders to his men. Who immediately set to work. Shortly after, a strange effervescence reigned over the clay cliff. A trench was dug which, starting from the staircase, was to reach the river. Gramh and his hunters always arrive at sunrise! We will not have time to finish the "Water Path"! As the darkness slowly dissipated, Tabara's men redoubled their ardor. They were digging very close to the river, When. Here they are! “Those from below” had just appeared on the plain. There were dozens of them. At their head walked the leader. Gramh the savage! Page Sixteen: The hunters arrived at the foot of the cliff just as the sun was rising over the forest. Gramh was the first to start climbing the dirt steps. Back Gramh! There is still time to avoid combat! Ha-ha-ha! Would the enemy-from-elsewhere be afraid? Gramh was still going up, followed by his men. Do not expect to be able to oppose my vengeance, "Fire-hair"! Hunters protected the ascension of Their Leader. Rahan had to throw himself back to avoid their arrows. And Gramh, ax in hand, hoisted himself onto the clay plateau! I promised to send you to the “Shadow Territory”, “Fire-hair”! I will keep my Word! Page Seventeen: Like the day before, Gramh threw himself at Rahan and, like the day before, both men rolled on the ground. And it was at this moment that a clamor rang out. The water from the river was rushing into the trench! The flood rushed towards the stairs, breaking over the clay! The hunters, surprised, clung to each other. But it was impossible for them to resist this torrent of water! Argh! Argh! Unable to hold on to the clay steps which had become sticky. They were falling in clusters into the void! And it was on such viscous ground that the melee between Rahan and Gramh continued. To me hunters! To me! What are you waiting for? Page Eighteen: Absorbed in combat, Gramh had not yet realized that he was the only one who had hoisted himself onto the plateau! Your men can do nothing more for you! The most daring tried to climb again. But the steps slipped beneath them and the downpour threw them off balance. Argh! We will never climb the cliff! It would take us days to get around the mountain and rescue Gramh! Do you think Gramh wants your help? Things were much better before he became our leader! Gramh! And while doubt seeped into the minds of the hunters, the melee between Rahan and Gramh continued. Page Nineteen: The son of Crao had just disarmed his adversary. But both were rolling into the trench. Although the water was shallow, its current was strong. And it carried the fighters towards the abyss. You will die with me “Fire-hair”! No! Rahan will not go to the territory of shadows! Savagely, the son of fierce ages plunged his knife into the soft earth. The ivory weapon slowed down the slide for an instant. But Gramh gripped Rahan's ankle fiercely. Gramh wants this! Rahan's foot extended, hitting his adversary's jaw, who let go. Page Twenty: Ra-ha-ha! Unable to hold on to the viscous clay, Gramh slipped into the trench, and disappeared into the void. A moment later, his men observed his dislocated corpse at the foot of the hill. No vengeful cries arose. These men, curiously enough, seemed relieved by the outcome of this fight. Gramh-the-savage is no more! But your clan remains! I am sure that peace will return between you and those on the cliff! “Those-from-below” and “Those-from-the-cliff” will, as before, loyally exchange their game and their objects. Happiness will return to this land. The mixed clamors of the two clans filled Rahan's heart with joy. The son of Crao felt very proud to have, once again, brought harmony between "Those-who-walk-Upright”, his brothers! Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

ASSIGNMENT IN ETERNITY. 1953 by Robert “A.” Heinlein. Renewed 1981 by Robert “A.” Heinlein. Contents: 1. Gulf. 2. Elsewhen. 3. Lost Legacy. 4. Jerry Was a Man. GULF. THE FIRST-QUARTER ROCKET from Moonbase put him down at Pied-a-Terre. The name he was traveling under began-by foresight-with the letter “A”; he was through port inspection and into the shuttle tube to the city ahead of the throng. Once in the tube car he went to the men’s washroom and locked himself in. Quickly he buckled on the safety belt he found there, snapped its hooks to the wall fixtures, and leaned over awkwardly to remove a razor from his bag. The surge caught him in that position; despite the safety belt he bumped his head-and swore. He straightened up and plugged in the razor. His moustache vanished; he shortened his sideburns, trimmed the corners of his eyebrows, and brushed them up. He towelled his hair vigorously to remove the oil that had sleeked it down, combed it loosely into a wavy mane. The car was now riding in a smooth, unaccelerated 300 miles per hour; he let himself out of the safety belt without unhooking it from the walls and, working very rapidly, peeled off his moonsuit, took from his bag and put on a tweedy casual outfit suited to outdoors on Earth and quite unsuited to Moon Colony’s air-conditioned corridors. His slippers he replaced with walking shoes from the bag; he stood up. Joel Abner, commercial traveler, had disappeared; in his place was Captain Joseph Gilead, explorer, lecturer, and writer. Of both names he was the sole user; neither was his birth name. He slashed the moonsuit to ribbons and flushed it down the water closet, added “Joel Abner’s” identification card; then peeled a plastic skin off his travel bag and let the bits follow the rest. The bag was now pearl grey and rough, instead of dark brown and smooth. The slippers bothered him; he was afraid they might stop up the car’s plumbing. He contented himself with burying them in the waste receptacle. The acceleration warning sounded as he was doing this; he barely had time to get back into the belt. But, as the car plunged into the solenoid field and surged to a stop, nothing remained of Joel Abner but some unmarked underclothing, very ordinary toilet articles, and nearly two dozen spools of microfilm equally appropriate, until examined, to a commercial traveler or a lecturer-writer. He planned not to let them be examined as long as he was alive. He waited in the washroom until he was sure of being last man out of the car, then went forward in to the next car, left by its exit, and headed for the lift to the ground level. “New Age Hotel, sir,” a voice pleaded near his ear. He felt a hand fumbling at the grip of his travel bag. He repressed a reflex to defend the bag and looked the speaker over. At first glance he seemed an under-sized adolescent in a smart uniform and a pillbox cap. Further inspection showed premature wrinkles and the features of a man at least forty. The eyes were glazed. A pituitary case, he thought to himself, and on the hop as well. “New Age Hotel,” the runner repeated. “Best mechanos in town, chief. There’s a discount if you’re just down from the moon.” Captain Gilead, when in town as Captain Gilead, always stayed at the old Savoy. But the notion of going to the New Age appealed to him; in that in credibly huge, busy, and ultramodern hostelry he might remain unnoticed until he had had time to do what had to be done. He disliked mightily the idea of letting go his bag. Nevertheless it would be out of character not to let the runner carry the bag; it would call attention to himself, and the bag. He decided that this unhealthy runt could not outrun him even if he himself were on crutches; it would suffice to keep an eye on the bag. “Lead on, comrade,” he answered heartily, surrendering the bag. There had been no hesitation at all; he had let go the bag even as the hotel runner reached for it. “Okay, chief.” The runner was first man into an empty lift; he went to the back of the car and set the bag down beside him. Gilead placed himself so that his foot rested firmly against his bag and faced forward as other travelers crowded in. The car started. The lift was jammed; Gilead was subjected to body pressures on every side-but he noticed an additional, unusual, and uncalled-for pressure behind him. His right hand moved suddenly and clamped down on a skinny wrist and a hand clutching something. Gilead made no further movement, nor did the owner of the hand attempt to draw away or make any objection. They remained so until the car reached the surface. When the passengers had spilled out he reached behind him with his left hand, recovered his bag and dragged the wrist and its owner out of the car. It was, of course, the runner; the object in his fist was Gilead’s wallet. “You durn near lost that. Chief,” the runner announced with no show of embarrassment. “It was falling out of your pocket.” Gilead liberated the wallet and stuffed it into an inner pocket. “Fell right through the zipper,” he answered cheerfully. “Well, let’s find a cop.” The runt tried to pull away, “You got nothing on me!” Gilead considered the defense. In truth, he had nothing. His wallet was already out of sight. As to witnesses, the other lift passengers were already gone-nor had they seen anything. The lift itself was automatic. He was simply a man in the odd position of detaining another citizen by the wrist. And Gilead himself did not want to talk to the police. He let go that wrist. “On your way, comrade. We’ll call it quits.” The runner did not move. “How about my tip?” Gilead was beginning to like this rascal. Locating a loose half credit in his change pocket he flipped it at the runner, who grabbed it out of the air but still didn’t leave. “I’ll take your bag now. Gimme.” “No, thanks, chum. I can find your delightful inn without further help. One side, please.” “Oh, yeah? How about my commission? I gotta carry your bag, else how they gonna know I brung you in? Gimme.” Gilead was delighted with the creature’s unabashed insistence. He found a two-credit piece and passed it over. “There’s your cumshaw. Now beat it, before I kick your tail up around your shoulders.” “You and who else?” Gilead chuckled and moved away down the concourse toward the station entrance to the New Age Hotel. His subconscious sentries informed him immediately that the runner had not gone back toward the lift as expected, but was keeping abreast him in the crowd. He considered this. The runner might very well be what he appeared to be, common city riffraff who combined casual thievery with his overt occupation. On the other hand. He decided to unload. He stepped suddenly off the sidewalk into the entrance of a drugstore and stopped Just inside the door to buy a newspaper. While his copy was being printed, he scooped up, apparently as an afterthought, three standard pneumo mailing tubes. As he paid for them he palmed a pad of gummed address labels. A glance at the mirrored wall showed him that his shadow had hesitated outside but was still watching him. Gilead went on back to the shop’s soda fountain and slipped into an unoccupied booth. Although the floor show was going on-a remarkably shapely ecdysiast was working down toward her last string of beads-he drew the booth’s curtain. Shortly the call light over the booth flashed discreetly; he called, “Come in!” A pretty and very young waitress came inside the curtain. Her plastic costume covered without concealing. She glanced around. “Lonely?” “No, thanks, I’m tired.” “How about a redhead, then? Real cute.” “I really am tired. Bring me two bottles of beer, unopened, and some pretzels.” “Suit yourself, sport.” She left. With speed he opened the travel bag, selected nine spools of microfilm, and loaded them into the three mailing tubes, the tubes being of the common three-spool size. Gilead then took the filched pad of address labels, addressed the top one to “Raymond Calhoun, P. 0. Box 1060, Chicago” and commenced to draw with great care in the rectangle reserved for electric eye sorter. The address he shaped in arbitrary symbols was intended not to be read, but to be scanned automatically. The hand-written address was merely a precaution, in case a robot sorter should reject his hand-drawn symbols as being imperfect and thereby turn the tube over to a human postal clerk for readdressing. He worked fast, but with the care of an engraver. The waitress returned before he had finished. The call light warned him; he covered the label with his elbow and kept it covered. She glanced at the mailing tubes as she put down the beer and a bowl of pretzels. “Want me to mail those?” He had another instant of split-second indecision. When he had stepped out of the tube car he had been reasonably sure, first, that the persona of Joel Abner, commercial traveler, had not been penetrated, and, second, that the transition from Abner to Gilead had been accomplished without arousing suspicion. The pocket-picking episode had not alarmed him, but had caused him to reclassify those two propositions from calculated certainties to unproved variables. He had proceeded to test them at once; they were now calculated certainties again-of the opposite sort. Ever since he had spotted his erstwhile porter, the New Age runner, as standing outside this same drugstore his subconscious had been clanging like a burglar alarm. It was clear not only that he had been spotted but that they were organized with a completeness and shrewdness he had not believed possible. But it was mathematically probable to the point of certainty that they were not operating through this girl. They had no way of knowing that he would choose to turn aside into this particular drugstore. That she could be used by them he was sure, and she had been out of sight since his first contact with her. But she was clearly not bright enough, despite her alley cat sophistication, to be approached, subverted, instructed and indoctrinated to the point where she could seize an unexpected opportunity, all in a space of time merely adequate to fetch two bottles of beer. No, this girl was simply after a tip. Therefore she was safe. But her costume offered no possibility of concealing three mailing tubes, nor would she be safe crossing the concourse to the post office. He had no wish that she be found tomorrow morning dead in a ditch. “No,” he answered immediately. “I have to pass the post office anyway. But it was a kind thought. Here.” He gave her a half credit. “Thanks.” She waited and stared meaningfully at the beer. He fumbled again in his change pocket, found only a few bits, reached for his wallet and took out a five-pluton note. ‘Take it out of this.” She handed him back three singles and some change. He pushed the change toward her, then waited, frozen, while she picked it up and left. Only then did he hold the wallet closer to his eyes. It was not his wallet. He should have noticed it before, he told himself. Even though there had been only a second from the time he had taken it from?’ the runner’s clutched fingers until he had concealed it in a front pocket, he should have known it-known it and forced the runner to disgorge, even if he had had to skin him alive. But why was he sure that it was not his wallet? It was the proper size and shape, the proper weight and feel-real ostrich skin in these days of synthetics. There was the weathered ink stain which had resulted from carrying a leaky stylus in the same pocket. There was a V-shaped scratch on the front which had happened so long ago he did not recall the circumstances. Yet it was not his wallet. He opened it again. There was the proper amount of money, there were what seemed to be his Explorers’ Club card and his other identity cards, there was a dog-eared flat-photo of a mare he had once owned. Yet the more the evidence showed that it was his, the more certain he became that it was not his. These things were forgeries; they did not feel right. There was one way to find out. He flipped a switch provided by a thoughtful management; the booth; became dark. He took out his penknife and carefully slit a seam back of the billfold pocket. He dipped a finger into a secret pocket thus disclosed and felt around; the space was empty-nor in this case had the duplication of his own wallet been quite perfect; the space should have been lined, but his fingers encountered rough leather. He switched the light back on, put the wallet away, and resumed his interrupted drawing. The loss of the card which should have been in the concealed pocket was annoying, certainly awkward, and conceivably disastrous, but he did not judge that the information on it was jeopardized by the loss of the wallet. The card was quite featureless unless examined by black light; if exposed to visible light-by someone taking the real wallet apart, for example-it had the disconcerting quality of bursting explosively into flame. He continued to work, his mind busy with the wider problem of why they had taken so much trouble to try to keep him from knowing that his wallet was being stolen, and the still wider and more disconcerting question of why they had bothered with his wallet. Finished, he stuffed the remainder of the pad of address labels into a crack between cushions in the booth, palmed the label he had prepared, picked up the bag and the three mailing tubes. One tube he kept separate from the others by a finger. No attack would take place, he judged, in the drug store. The crowded concourse between himself and the post office he would ordinarily have considered equally safe-but not today. A large crowd of people, he knew, are equal to so many trees as witnesses if the dice were loaded with any sort of a diversion. He slanted across the bordering slidewalk and headed directly across the middle toward the post office, keeping as far from other people as he could manage. He had become aware of two men converging on him when the expected diversion took place. It was a blinding light and a loud explosion, followed by screams and startled shouts. The source of the explosion he could imagine; the screams and shouts were doubtless furnished free by the public. Being braced, not for this, but for anything, he refrained even from turning his head. The two men closed rapidly, as on cue. Most creatures and almost all humans fight only when pushed. This can lose them decisive advantage. The two men made no aggressive move of any sort, other than to come close to Gilead-nor did they ever attack. Gilead kicked the first of them in the knee cap, using the side of his foot, a much more certain stroke than with the toe. He swung with his travel bag against the other at the same time, not hurting him but bothering him, spoiling his timing. Gilead followed it with a heavy kick to the man’s stomach. The man whose knee cap he had ruined was on the pavement, but still active-reaching for something, a gun or a knife. Gilead kicked him in the head and stepped over him, continued toward the post office. Slow march-slow march all the way! He must not give the appearance of running away; he must be the perfect respectable citizen, going about his lawful occasions. The post office came close, and still no tap on the shoulder, no denouncing shout, no hurrying footsteps. He reached the post office, was inside. The opposition’s diversion had worked, perfectly, but for Gilead, not for them, there was a short queue at the addressing machine. Gilead joined it, took out his stylus and wrote addresses on the tubes while standing. A man joined the queue almost at once. Gilead made no effort to keep him from seeing what address he was writing; it was “Captain Joseph Gilead, the Explorers’ Club, New York.” When it came his turn to use the symbol printing machine he still made no effort to conceal what keys he was punching, and the symbol address matched the address he had written on each tube. He worked somewhat awkwardly as the previously prepared gummed label was still concealed in his left palm. He went from the addressing machine to the mailing receivers; the man who had been behind him in line followed him without pretending to address anything. Thwonk! And the first tube was away with a muted implosion of compressed air. Thwonk! again and the second was gone, and at the same time Gilead grasped the last one in his left hand, sticking the gummed label down firmly over the address he had just printed on it. Without looking at it he made sure by touch that it was in place, all corners sealed, then, thwonk! It joined its mates. Gilead turned suddenly and trod heavily on the feet of the man crowded close behind him. “Wups! Pardon me,” he said happily and turned away. He was feeling very cheerful; not only had he turned his dangerous charge over into the care of a mindless, utterly reliable, automatic machine which could not be coerced, bribed, drugged, nor subverted by any other means and in whose complexities the tube would be perfectly hidden until it reached a destination known only to Gilead, but also he had just stepped on the corns of one of the opposition. On the steps of the post office he paused beside a policeman who was picking his teeth and staring out at a cluster of people and an ambulance in the middle of the concourse. “What’s up?” Gilead demanded. The cop shifted his toothpick. “First some damn fool sets off fireworks,” he answered, “then two guys get in a fight and blame near ruin each other.” “My goodness!” Gilead commented and set off diagonally toward the New Age Hotel. He looked around for his pick-pocket friend in the lobby, did not see him. Gilead strongly doubted if the runt were on the hotel’s staff. He signed in as Captain Gilead, ordered a suite appropriate to the persona he was wearing, and let himself be conducted to the lift. Gilead encountered the runner coming down just as he and his bellman were about to go up. “Hi, Shorty!” he called out while deciding not to eat anything in this hotel. “How’s business?” The runt looked startled, then passed him without answering, his eyes blank. It was not likely, Gilead considered, that the runt would be used after being detected; therefore some sort of drop box, call station, or headquarters of the opposition was actually inside the hotel. Very well, that would save everybody a lot of useless commuting, and there would be fun for all! In the meantime he wanted a bath. In his suite he tipped the bellman who continued to linger. “Want some company?” “No, thanks, I’m a hermit.” “Try this then.” The bellman inserted Gilead’s room key in the stereo panel, fiddled with the controls, the entire wall lighted up and faded away. A svelte blonde creature, backed by a chorus line, seemed about to leap into Gilead’s lap. “That’s not a tape,” the bellman went on, “that’s a live transmission direct from the Tivoli. We got the best equipment in town.” “So you have,” Gilead agreed, and pulled out his key. The picture blanked; the music stopped. “But I want a bath, so get out-now that you’ve spent four credits of my money.” The bellman shrugged and left. Gilead threw off his clothes and stepped into the ‘fresher. Twenty minutes later, shaved from ear to toe, scrubbed, soaked, sprayed, pummeled, rubbed, scented, powdered, and feeling ten years younger, he stepped out. His clothes were gone. His bag was still there; he looked it over. It seemed okay, itself and contents. There were the proper number of microfilm spools-not that it mattered. Only three of the spools mattered and they were already in the mail. The rest were just shrubbery, copies of his own public lectures. Nevertheless he examined one of them, unspooling a few frames. It was one of his own lectures all right-but not one he had had with him. It was one of his published transcriptions, available in any large book store. “Pixies everywhere,” he remarked and put it back. Such attention to detail was admirable. “Room service!” The service panel lighted up. “Yes, sir?” “My clothes are missing. Chase ‘em up for me.” “The valet has them, sir.” “I didn’t order valet service. Get ‘em back.” The girl’s voice and face were replaced, after a slight delay, by those of a man. “It is not necessary to order valet service here, sir. ‘A New Age guest receives the best.’ “ “Okay, get ‘em back-chop, chop! I’ve got a date with the Queen of Sheba.” “Very good, sir.” The image faded. With wry humor he reviewed his situation. He had already made the possibly fatal error of underestimating his opponent through, he now knew, visualizing that opponent in the unimpressive person of “the runt.” Thus he had allowed himself to be diverted; he should have gone anywhere rather than to the New Age, even to the old Savoy, although that hotel, being a known stamping ground of Captain Gilead, was probably as thoroughly booby-trapped by now as this palatial dive. He must not assume that he had more than a few more minutes to live. Therefore he must use those few minutes to tell his boss the destination of the three important spools of microfilm. Thereafter, if he still were alive, he must replenish his cash to give him facilities for action-the amount of money in “his” wallet, even if it were returned, was useless for any major action. Thirdly, he must report in, close the present assignment, and be assigned to his present antagonists as a case in themselves, quite aside from the matter of the microfilm. Not that he intended to drop Runt and Company even if not assigned to them. True artists were scarce-nailing him down by such a simple device as stealing his pants! He loved them for it and wanted to see more of them, as violently as possible. Even as the image on the room service panel faded he was punching the scrambled keys on the room’s communicator desk. It was possible-certain, that the scramble code he used would be repeated elsewhere in the hotel and the supposed privacy attained by scrambling thereby breached at once. This did not matter; he would have his boss disconnect and call back with a different scramble from the other end. To be sure, the call code of the station to which he was reporting would thereby be breached, but it was more than worthwhile to expend and discard one relay station to get this message through. Scramble pattern set up, he coded-not New Washington, but the relay station he had selected. A girl’s face showed on the screen. “New Age service, sir, Were you scrambling?” “Yes.” “I am veree sorree, sir. The scrambling circuits are being repaired, I can scramble for you from the main board.” “No, thanks, I’ll call in clear.” “I yam ve-ree sor-ree, sir.” There was one clear-code he could use-to be used only for crash priority. This was crash priority. Very well- He punched the keys again without scrambling and waited. The same girl’s face appeared presently. “I am verree soiree, sir; that code does not reply. May I help you?” “You might send up a carrier pigeon.” He cleared the board. The cold breath on the back of his neck was stronger now; he decided to do what he could to make it awkward to kill him just yet. He reached back into his mind and coded in clear the Star-Times. No answer. He tried the Clarion-again no answer. No point in beating his head against it; they did not intend to let him talk outside to anyone. He rang for a bellman, sat down in an easy chair, switched it to “shallow massage,” and luxuriated happily in the chair’s tender embrace. No doubt about it; the New Age did have the best mechanos in town-his bath had been wonderful; this chair was superb. Both the recent austerities of Moon Colony and the probability that this would be his last massage added to his pleasure. The door dilated and a bellman came in-about his own size, Gilead noted. The man’s eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch on seeing Gilead’s oyster-naked condition. “You want company?” Gilead stood up and moved toward him. “No, dearie,” he said grinning, “I want you”, at which he sank three stiffened fingers in the man’s solar plexus. As the man grunted and went down Gilead chopped him in the side of the neck with the edge of his hand. The shoulders of the jacket were too narrow and the shoes too large; nevertheless two minutes later “Captain Gilead” had followed “Joel Abner” to oblivion and Joe, temporary and free-lance bellman, let himself out of the room. He regretted not being able to leave a tip with his predecessor. He sauntered past the passengers lifts, firmly misdirected a guest who had stopped him, and found the service elevator. By it was a door to the “quick drop.” He opened it, reached out and grasped a waiting pulley belt, and, without stopping to belt himself into it, contenting himself with hanging on, he stepped off the edge. In less time than it would have taken him to parachute the drop he was picking himself up off the cushions in the hotel basement and reflecting that lunar gravitation surely played hob with a man’s leg muscles. He left the drop room and started out in an arbitrary direction, but walking as if he were on business and belonged where he was-any exit would do and he would find one eventually. He wandered in and out of the enormous pantry, then found the freight door through which the pantry was supplied. When he was thirty feet from it, it closed and an alarm sounded. He turned back. He encountered two policemen in one of the many corridors under the giant hotel and attempted to brush on past them. One of them stared at him, then caught his arm. “Captain Gilead.” Gilead tried to squirm away, but without showing any skill in the attempt. “What’s the idea?” “You are Captain Gilead.” “And you’re my Aunt Sadie. Let go of my arm, copper.” The policeman fumbled in his pocket with his other hand, pulled out a notebook, Gilead noted that the other officer had moved a safe ten feet away and had a Markheim gun trained on him. “You, Captain Gilead,” the first officer droned, “are charged on a sworn complaint with offering a counterfeit five-pluton note at or about thirteen hours this date at the Grand Concourse drugstore in this city. You are cautioned to come peacefully and are advised that you need not speak at this time. Come along.” The charge might or might not have something to it, thought Gilead; he had not examined closely the money in the substituted wallet. He did not mind being booked, now that the microfilm was out of his possession; to be in an ordinary police station with nothing more sinister to cope with than crooked cops and dumb desk sergeants would be easy street compared with Runt and Company searching for him. On the other hand the situation was too pat, unless the police had arrived close on his heels and found the stripped bellman, gotten his story and started searching. The second policeman kept his distance and did not lower the Markheim gun. That made other consideration academic. “Okay, I’ll go,” he protested. “You don’t have to twist my arm that way. They went up to the weather level and out to the street, and not once did the second cop drop his guard. Gilead relaxed and waited. A police car was balanced at the curb. Gilead stopped. “I’ll walk,” he said. “The nearest station is just around the corner. I want to be booked in my own precinct.” He felt a teeth-chattering chill as the blast from the Markheim hit him; he pitched forward on his face. He was coming to, but still could not coordinate, as they lifted him out of the car. By the time he found himself being half-carried, half-marched down a long corridor he was almost himself again, but with a gap in his memory. He was shoved through a door which clanged behind him. He steadied himself and looked around. “Greetings, friend,” a resonant voice called out. “Drag up a chair by the fire.” Gilead blinked, deliberately slowed himself down, and breathed deeply. His healthy body was fighting off the effects of the Markheim bolt; he was almost himself. The room was a cell, old-fashioned, almost primitive. The front of the cell and the door were steel bars; the walls were concrete. Its only furniture, a long wooden bench, was occupied by the man who had spoken. He was fiftyish, of ponderous frame, heavy features set in a shrewd, good-natured expression. He was lying back on the bench, head pillowed on his hands, in animal ease. Gilead had seen him before. “Hello, Doctor Baldwin.” The man sat up with a flowing economy of motion that moved his bulk as little as possible. “I’m not Doctor Baldwin-I’m not Doctor anything, though my name is Baldwin.” He stared at Gilead. “But I know you. Seen some of your lectures,” Gilead cocked an eyebrow. “A man would seem naked around the Association of Theoretical Physicists without a doctor’s degree, and you were at their last meeting.” Baldwin chuckled boomingly. “That accounts for it-that has to be my cousin on my father’s side, Hartley M.-stuffy citizen Hartley. I’ll have to try to take the curse off the family name, now that I’ve met you. Captain.” He stuck out a huge hand. “Gregory Baldwin, ‘Kettle Belly’ to my friends. New and used helicopters is as close as I come to theoretical physics. ‘Kettle Belly Baldwin, King of the Kopters’-you must have seen my advertising.” “Now that you mention it, I have.” Baldwin pulled out a card. “Here. If you ever need one, I’ll give you a ten percent off for knowing old Hartley, Matter of fact, I can do right well by you in a year-old Curtiss, a family car without a mark on it.” Gilead accepted the card and sat down. “Not at the moment, thanks. You seem to have an odd sort of office, Mister Baldwin.” Baldwin chuckled again. “In the course of a long life these things happen. Captain. I won’t ask you why you are here or what you are doing in that monkey suit. Call me Kettle Belly.” “Okay.” Gilead got up and went to the door. Opposite the cell was a blank wall; there was no one in sight. He whistled and shouted-no answer. “What’s itching you, Captain?” Baldwin asked gently. Gilead turned. His cellmate had dealt a solitaire hand on the bench and was calmly playing. “I’ve got to raise the turnkey and send for a lawyer.” “Don’t fret about it. Let’s play some cards.” He reached in a pocket. “I’ve got a second deck; how about some Russian bank?” “No, thanks. I’ve got to get out of here.” He shouted again-still no answer. “Don’t waste your lung power. Captain,” Baldwin advised him. “They’ll come when it suits them and not a second before. I know. Come play with me; it passes the time.” Baldwin appeared to be shuffling the two decks; Gilead could see that he was actually stacking the cards. The deception amused him; he decided to play-since the truth of Baldwin’s advice was so evident. “If you don’t like Russian bank,” Kettle Belly went on, “here is a game I learned as a kid.” He paused and stared into Gilead’s eyes. “It’s instructive as well as entertaining, yet it’s simple, once you catch on to it.” He started dealing out the cards. “It makes a better game with two decks, because the black cards don’t mean anything. Just the twenty-six red cards in each deck count-with the heart suit coming first. Each card scores according to its position in that sequence, the ace of hearts is one and the king of hearts counts thirteen; the ace of diamonds is next at fourteen and so on. Savvy?” “Yes” “And the blacks don’t count. They’re blanks, spaces. Ready to play?” “What are the rules?” “We’ll deal out one hand for free; you’ll learn faster as you see it. Then, when you’ve caught on, I’ll play you for a half interest in the atomics trust-or ten bits in cash.” He resumed dealing, laying the cards out rapidly in columns, five to a row. He paused, finished. “It’s my deal, so it’s your count. See what you get.” It was evident that Baldwin’s stacking had brought the red cards into groups, yet there was no evident advantage to it, nor was the count especially high, nor low. Gilead stared at it, trying to figure out the man’s game. The cheating, as cheating seemed too bold to be probable. Suddenly the cards jumped at him, arranged themselves in a meaningful array. He read: “X”THEY CAN “X-X” “X, X, X” SEE HEAR “X” US “X, X” The fact that there were only two fives-of-hearts available had affected the spelling but the meaning was clear. Gilead reached for the cards. “I’ll try one. I can beat that score.” He dipped into the tips belonging to the suit’s owner. “Ten bits it is.” Baldwin covered it. Gilead shuffled, making even less attempt to cover up than had Baldwin. He dealt: WHATS Five X YOUR GAME “X” Five X. Baldwin shoved the money toward him and anted again. “Okay, my turn for revenge.” He laid out: “X, X” I’M “X, X” ON “X, X” YOUR “X” Five X SIDE. “I win again,” Gilead announced gleefully. “Ante up.” He grabbed the cards and manipulated them: YEAH X, Five X PROVE “X, X” IT, X Five X Baldwin counted and said, “You’re too smart for me. Gimme the cards.” He produced another ten-bit piece and dealt again: “X, X” I’L X HELP X YOU X, GET, X OUT, X, X. “I should have cut the cards,” Gilead complained, pushing the money over. “Let’s double the bets.” Baldwin grunted and Gilead dealt again: “X” NUTS IM Triple X SAFER “X, X” IN “X, X” GAOL. “I broke your luck,” Baldwin gloated. “We’ll double it again?” X U X R, “X, X” NUTS. THIS X NO Triple X, JAIL. The deal shifted: KEEP X, X TALKING Six X, BUD, X. Baldwin answered: THIS Six X, X, NEW AGE “X, X, X” HOTEL. As he stacked the cards again Gilead considered these new factors. He was prepared to believe that he was hidden somewhere in the New Age Hotel; in fact the counterproposition that his opponents had permitted two ordinary cops to take him away to a normal city jail was most unlikely-unless they had the jail as fully under control as they quite evidently had the hotel. Nevertheless the point was not proven. As for Baldwin, he might be on Gilead’s side; more probably he was planted as an agent provocateur-or he might be working for himself. The permutations added up to six situations, only one of which made it desirable to accept Baldwin’s offer for help in a Jail break-said situation being the least likely of the six. Nevertheless, though he considered Baldwin a liar, net, he tentatively decided to accept. A static situation brought him no advantage; a dynamic situation-any dynamic situation-he might turn to his advantage. But more data were needed. “These cards are sticky as candy,” he complained. “You letting your money ride?” “Suits.” Gilead dealt again: Five X, WHY “X, X” AM Six X, I X HERE. “You have the damnedest luck,” Baldwin commented: FILMS ESCAP BFORE “X” U, triple X, KRACK Gilead swept up the cards, was about to “shuffle,” when Baldwin said, “Oh-oh, school’s out.” Footsteps could be heard in the passage. “Good luck, boy,” Baldwin added. Baldwin knew about the films, but had not used any of the dozen ways to identify himself as part of Gilead’s own organization. Therefore he was planted by the opposition, or he was a third factor. More important, the fact that Baldwin knew about the films proved his assertion that this was not a jail. It followed with bitter certainty that he, Gilead. stood no computable chance of getting out alive. The footsteps approaching the cell could be ticking off the last seconds of his life. He knew now that he should have found means to report the destination of the films before going to the New Age. But Humpty Dumpty was off the wall, entropy always increases-but the films must be delivered. The footsteps were quite close. Baldwin might get out alive. But who was Baldwin? All the while he was “shuffling” the cards. The action was not final; he had only to give them one true shuffle to destroy the message being set up in them. A spider settled from the ceiling, landed on the other man’s hand. Baldwin, instead of knocking it off and crushing it, most carefully reached his arm out toward the wall and encouraged it to lower itself to the floor. “Better stay out of the way, shorty,” he said gently, “or one of the big boys is likely to step on you.” The incident, small as it was, determined Gilead’s decision, and with it, the fate of a planet. He stood up and handed the stacked deck to Baldwin. “I owe you exactly ten-sixty,” he said carefully. “Be sure to remember it-I’ll see who our visitors are.” The footsteps had stopped outside the cell door. There were two of then, dressed neither as police nor as guards; the masquerade was over. One stood well back, covering the maneuver with a Markheim, the other unlocked the door. “Back against the wall, Fatso,” he ordered. “Gilead, out you come. And take it easy, or after we freeze you, I’ll knock out your teeth just for fun.” Baldwin shuffled back against the wall; Gilead came out slowly. He watched for any opening but the leader backed away from him without once getting between him and the man with the Markheim. “Ahead of us and take it slow,” he was ordered. He complied, helpless under the precautions, unable to run, unable to fight. Baldwin went back to the bench when they had gone. He dealt out the cards as if playing solitaire, swept them up again, and continued to deal himself solitaire hands. Presently he “shuffled” the cards back to the exact order Gilead had left them in and pocketed them. The message had read; X TELL X FBS X PO BOX DEBT XXX CHI. His two guards marched Gilead into a room and locked the door behind him, leaving themselves outside. He found himself in a large window overlooking the city and a reach of the river; balancing it on the left hung a solid portraying a lunar landscape in convincing color and depth. In front of him was a rich but not ostentatious executive desk. The lower part of his mind took in these details; his attention could be centered only on the person who sat at that desk. She was old but not senile, frail but not helpless. Her eyes were very much alive, her expression serene. Her translucent, well-groomed hands were busy with a frame of embroidery. On the desk in front of her were two pneumo mailing tubes, a pair of slippers, and some tattered, soiled remnants of cloth and plastic. She looked up. “How do you do. Captain Gilead?” she said in a thin, sweet soprano suitable for singing hymns. Gilead bowed. “Well, thank you, and you, Missus Keithley?” “You know me, I see.” “Madame would be famous if only for her charities.” “You are kind. Captain, I will not waste your time. I had hoped that we could release you without fuss, but.” She indicated the two tubes in front of her. “You can see for yourself that we must deal with you further.” “So?” “Come, now. Captain. You mailed three tubes. These two are only dummies, and the third did not reach its apparent destination. It is possible that it was badly addressed and has been rejected by the sorting machines. If so, we shall have it in due course. But it seems much more likely that you found some way to change its address-likely to the point of pragmatic certainty.” “Or possibly I corrupted your servant.” She shook her head slightly. “We examined him quite thoroughly before.” “Before he died?” “Please, Captain, let’s not change the subject. I must know where you sent that other tube. You cannot be hypnotized by ordinary means; you have an acquired immunity to hypnotic drugs. Your tolerance for pain extends beyond the threshold of unconsciousness. All of these things have already been proved, else you would not be in the job you are in; I shall not put either of us to the inconvenience of proving them again. Yet I must have that tube. What is your price?” “You assume that I have a price.” She smiled. “If the old saw has any exceptions, history does not record them. Be reasonable, Captain. Despite your admitted immunity to ordinary forms of examination, there are ways of breaking down-of changing-a man’s character so that he becomes really quite pliant under examination, ways that we learned from the commissars. But those ways take time and a woman my age has no time to waste.” Gilead lied convincingly, “It’s not your age, ma’am; it is the fact that you know that you must obtain that tube at once or you will never get it.” He was hoping-more than that, he was wishing-that Baldwin would have sense enough to examine the cards for one last message, and act on it. If Baldwin failed and he, Gilead, died, the tube would eventually come to rest in a dead-letter office and would in time be destroyed. “You are probably right. Nevertheless, Captain, I will go ahead with the Mindszenty technique if you insist upon it. What do you say to ten million plutonium credits?” Gilead believed her first statement. He reviewed in his mind the means by which a man bound hand and foot, or worse, could kill himself unassisted. “Ten million plutons and a knife ‘in my back?” he answered. “Let’s be practical.” “Convincing assurance would be given before you need talk.” “Even so, it is not my price. After all, you are worth at least five hundred million plutons.” She leaned forward. “I like you. Captain. You are a man of strength. I am an old woman, without heirs. Suppose you became my partner, and my successor?” “Pie in the sky,” “No, no! I mean it. My age and sex do not permit me actively to serve myself; I must rely on others. Captain, I am very tired of inefficient tools, of men who can let things be spirited away right from under their noses. Imagine!” She made a little gesture of exasperation, clutching her hand into a claw. “You and I could go far. Captain. I need you.” “But I do not need you, madame. And I won’t have you.” She made no answer, but touched a control on her desk. A door on the left dilated; two men and a girl came in. The girl Gilead recognized as the waitress from the Grand Concourse Drug Store. They had stripped her bare, which seemed to him an unnecessary indignity since her working uniform could not possibly have concealed a weapon. The girl, once inside, promptly blew her top, protesting, screaming, using language unusual to her age and sex, an hysterical, thalamic outburst of volcanic proportions. “Quiet, child!” The girl stopped in midstream, looked with surprise at Missus Keithley, and shut up. Nor did she start again, but stood there, looking even younger than she was and somewhat aware of and put off stride by her nakedness. She was covered now with goose flesh, one tear cut a white line down her dust-smeared face, stopped at her lip. She licked at it and sniffled. “You were out of observation once. Captain,” Missus Keithley went on, “during which time this person saw you twice. Therefore we will examine her.” Gilead shook his head. “She knows no more than a goldfish. But go ahead-five minutes of hypno will convince you.’ “Oh, no. Captain! Hypno is sometimes fallible; if she is a member of your bureau, it is certain to be fallible.” She signalled to one of the men attending the girl; he went to a cupboard and opened it. “I am old-fashioned,” the old woman went on. “I trust simple mechanical means much more than I do the cleverest of clinical procedures.” Gilead saw the implements that the man was removing from cupboard and started forward. “Stop that!” he commanded. “You can’t do that.” He bumped his nose quite hard. The man paid him no attention. Missus Keithley said, “Forgive me, Captain. I should have told you that this room is not one room, but two. The partition is merely glass, but very special glass-I use the room for difficult interviews. There is no need to hurt yourself by trying to reach us.” “Just a moment!” “Yes, Captain?” “Your time is already running out. Let the girl and me go free now. You are aware that there are several hundred men searching this city for me even now, and that they will not stop until they have taken it apart panel by panel.” “I think not. A man answering your description to the last factor caught the South Africa rocket twenty minutes after you registered at the New Age hotel. He was carrying your very own identifications. He will not reach South Africa, but the manner of his disappearance will point to desertion rather than accident or suicide.” Gilead dropped the matter. “What do you plan to gain by abusing this child? You have all she knows; certainly you do not believe that we could afford to trust in such as she?” Missus Keithley pursed her lips. “Frankly, I do not expect to learn anything from her. I may learn something from you.” “I see.” The leader of the two men looked questioningly at his mistress; she motioned him to go ahead. The girl stared blankly at him, plainly unaware of the uses of the equipment he had gotten out. He and his partner got busy. Shortly the girl screamed, continued to scream for a few moments in a high ululation. Then it stopped as she fainted. They roused her and stood her up again. She stood, swaying and staring stupidly at her poor hands, forever damaged even for the futile purposes to which she had been capable of putting them. Blood spread down her wrists and dripped on a plastic tarpaulin, placed there earlier by the second of the two men. Gilead did nothing and said nothing. Knowing as he did that the tube he was protecting contained matters measured in millions of lives, the problem of the girl, as a problem, did not even arise. It disturbed a deep and very ancient part of his brain, but almost automatically he cut that part off and lived for the time in his forebrain. Consciously he memorized the faces, skulls, and figures of the two men and filed the data under “personal.” Thereafter he unobtrusively gave his attention to the scene out the window. He had been noting it all through the interview but he wanted to give it explicit thought. He recast what he saw in terms of what it would look like had be been able to look squarely out the window and decided that he was on the ninety-first floor of the New Age hotel and approximately one hundred and thirty meters from the north end. He filed this under “professional.” When the girl died, Missus Keithley left the room without speaking to him. The men gathered up what was left in the tarpaulin and followed her. Presently the two guards returned and, using the same fool-proof methods, took him back to his cell. As soon as the guards had gone and Kettle Belly was free to leave his position against the wall he came forward and pounded Gilead on the shoulders. “Hi, boy! I’m sure glad to see you-I was scared I would never lay eyes on you again. How was it? Pretty rough?” “No, they didn’t hurt me; they just asked some questions.” “You’re lucky. Some of those crazy damn cops play mean when they get you alone in a back room. Did they let you call your lawyer?” “No.” “Then they ain’t through with you. You want to watch it, kid.” Gilead sat down on the bench. “The hell with them. Want to play some more cards?” “Don’t mind if I do. I feel lucky.” Baldwin pulled out the double deck, riffled through it. Gilead took them and did the same. Good! They were in the order he had left them in. He ran his thumb across the edges again-yes, even the black nulls were unchanged in sequence; apparently Kettle Belly had simply stuck them in his pocket without examining them, without suspecting that a last message had been written in to them. He felt sure that Baldwin would not have left the message set up if he had read it. Since he found himself still alive, he was much relieved to think this. He gave the cards one true shuffle, then started stacking them. His first lay-out read: Five-X, ESCAP “X, X” AT Six X, ONCE. “Gotcha that time!” Baldwin crowed. “Ante up.” DID “X, X, X” YOU Nine-XCRACK. “Let it ride,” announced Gilead and took the deal; “X, X” NO, X BUT, Six X LETS “X, X” GO. X. “You’re too damned lucky to live,” complained Baldwin. “Look-we’ll leave the bets doubled and double the lay-out. I want a fair chance to get my money back.” His next lay-out read: XX-T-H-N-X, T-H-N-X, T-H-N-X NEED Five X, ALIVE Five X PLAY X, “X, X, X” UP. “Didn’t do you much good, did it?” Gilead commented, took the cards and started arranging them. “There’s something mighty funny about a man that wins all the time,” Baldwin grumbled. He watched Gilead narrowly. Suddenly his hand shot out, grabbed Gilead’s wrist. “I thought so,” he yelled. “A goddam card sharp.” Gilead shook his hand off. “Why, you obscene fat slug!” “Caught you! Caught you?” Kettle Belly reclaimed his hold, grabbed the other wrist as well. They struggled and rolled to the floor. Gilead discovered two things: this awkward, bulky man was an artist at every form of dirty fighting and he could simulate it convincingly without damaging his partner. His nerve holds were an inch off the nerve; his kneeings were to thigh muscle rather than to the crotch. Baldwin tried for a chancery strangle; Gilead let him take it. The big man settled the flat of his forearm against the point of Gilead’s chin rather than against his Adam’s apple and proceeded to “strangle” him. There were running footsteps in the corridor. Gilead caught a glimpse of the guards as they reached the door. They stopped momentarily; the bell of the Markheim was too big to use through the steel grating, the charge would be screened and grounded. Apparently they did not have pacifier bombs with them, for they hesitated. Then the leader quickly unlocked the door, while the man with the Markheim dropped back to the cover position. Baldwin ignored them, while continuing his stream of profanity and abuse at Gilead. He let the first man almost reach them before he suddenly said in Gilead’s ear, “Close your eyes!” At which he broke just as suddenly. Gilead sensed an incredibly dazzling flash of light even through his eyelids. Almost on top of it he heard a muffled crack; he opened his eyes and saw that the first man was down, his head twisted at a grotesque angle. The man with the Markheim was shaking his head; the muzzle of his weapon weaved around. Baldwin was charging him in a waddle, back and knees bent until he was hardly three feet tall. The blinded guard could hear him, let fly a charge in the direction of the noise; it passed over Baldwin. Baldwin was on him; the two went down. There was another cracking noise of ruptured bone and another dead man. Baldwin stood up, grasping the Markheim, keeping it pointed down the corridor. “How are your eyes, kid?” he called out anxiously. “They’re all right.” “Then come take this chiller.” Gilead moved up, took the Markheim. Baldwin ran to the dead end of the corridor where a window looked out over the city. The window did not open; there was no “copter step” beyond it. It was merely a straight drop. He came running back. Gilead was shuffling possibilities in his mind. Events had moved by Baldwin’s plan, not by his. As a result of his visit to Missus Keithley’s “interview room” he was oriented in space. The corridor ahead and a turn to the left should bring him to the quick-drop shaft. Once in the basement and armed with a Markheim, he felt sure that he could fight his way out-with Baldwin in trail if the man would follow. If not, well, there was too much at stake. Baldwin was into the cell and out again almost at once. “Come along!” Gilead snapped. A head showed at the bend in the corridor; he let fly at it and the owner of the head passed out on the floor. “Out of my way, kid!” Baldwin answered. He was carrying the heavy bench on which they had “played” cards. He started up the corridor with it, toward the sealed window, gaining speed remarkably as he went. His makeshift battering ram struck the window heavily. The plastic bulged, ruptured, and snapped like a soap bubble. The bench went on through, disappeared from sight, while Baldwin teetered on hands and knees, a thousand feet of nothingness under his chin. “Kid!” he yelled. “Close in! Fall back!” Gilead backed towards him, firing twice more as he did so. He still did not see how Baldwin planned to get out but the big man had demonstrated that he had resourcefulness, and resources. Baldwin was whistling through his fingers and waving. In violation of all city traffic rules a helicopter separated itself from the late afternoon throng, cut through a lane, and approached the window. It hovered just far enough away to keep from fouling its blades. The driver opened the door, a line snaked across and Kettle Belly caught it. With great speed he made it fast to the window’s polarizer knob, then grabbed the Markheim. “You first,” he snapped. “Hurry!” Gilead dropped to his knees and grasped the line; the driver immediately increased his tip speed and tilted his rotor; the line tautened. Gilead let it take his weight, then swarmed across it. The driver gave him a hand up while controlling his craft like a high school horse with his other hand. The ‘copter bucked; Gilead turned and saw Baldwin coming across, a fat spider on a web. As he himself helped the big man in, the driver reached down and cut the line. The ship bucked again and slid away. There were already men standing in the broken window. “Get lost, Steve!” Baldwin ordered. The driver gave his tip jets another notch and tilted the rotor still more; the ‘copter swooped away. He eased it into the traffic stream and inquired, “Where to?” “Set her for home, and tell the other boys to go home, too. No-you’ve got your hands full; I’ll tell them!” Baldwin crowded up into the other pilot’s seat, slipped on phones and settled a quiet-mike over his mouth. The driver adjusted his car to the traffic, set up a combination on his pilot, then settled back and opened a picture magazine. Shortly Baldwin took off the phones and came back to the passenger compartment. ‘Takes a lot of ‘copters to be sure you have one cruising by when you need it,” he said conversationally. “Fortunately, I’ve got a lot of ‘em. Oh, by the way, this is Steve Halliday. Steve, meet Joe-Joe, what is your last name?” “Greene,” answered Gilead. “Howdy,” said the driver and let his eyes go back to his magazine. Gilead considered the situation. He was not sure that it had been improved. Kettle Belly, whatever he was, was more than a used ‘copter dealer, and he knew about the films. This boy Steve looked like a harmless young extrovert but, then. Kettle Belly himself looked like a lunk. He considered trying to overpower both of them, remembered Kettle Belly’s virtuosity in rough-and-tumble fighting, and decided against it. Perhaps Kettle Belly really was on his side, completely and utterly. He heard rumors that the Department used more than one echelon of operatives and he had no way of being sure that he himself was at the top level. “Kettle Belly,” he went on, “could you set me down at the airport first? I’m in one hell of a hurry.” Baldwin looked him over. “Sure, if you say so. But I thought you would want to swap those duds? You’re as conspicuous as a preacher at a stag party. And how are you fixed for cash?” With his fingers Gilead counted the change that had come with the suit. A man without cash had one arm in a sling. “How long would it take?” “Ten minutes extra, maybe.” Gilead thought again about Kettle Belly’s fighting ability and decided that there was no way for a fish in water to get any wetter. “Okay.” He settled back and relaxed completely. Presently he turned again to Baldwin. “By the way, how did you manage to sneak in that dazzle bomb?” Kettle Belly chuckled. “I’m a large man, Joe; there’s an awful lot of me to search.” He laughed again. “You’d be amazed at where I had that hidden.” Gilead changed the subject. “How did you happen to be there in the first place?” Baldwin sobered. “That’s a long and complicated story. Come back some day when you’re not in such a rush and I’ll tell you all about it.” “I’ll do that-soon.” “Good. Maybe I can sell you that used Curtiss at the same time.” The pilot alarm sounded; the driver put down his magazine and settled the craft on the roof of Baldwin’s establishment. Baldwin was as good as his word. He took Gilead to his office, sent for clothes-which showed up with great speed, and handed Gilead a wad of bills suitable to stuff a pillow. “You can mail it back,” he said. “I’ll bring it back in person,” promised Gilead. “Good. Be careful out on the street. Some of our friends are sure to be around.” “I’ll be careful.” He left, as casually as if he had called there on business, but feeling less sure of himself than usual. Baldwin himself remained a mystery and, in his business, Gilead could not afford mysteries. There was a public phone booth in the lobby of Baldwin’s building. Gilead went in, scrambled, then coded a different relay station from the one he had attempted to use before. He gave his booth’s code and instructed the operator to scramble back. In a matter of minutes he was talking to his chief in New Washington. “Joe! Where the hell have you been?” “Later, boss-get this.” In departmental oral code as an added precaution, he told his chief that the films were in post office box 1060, Chicago, and insisted that they be picked up by a major force at once. His chief turned away from the view plate, then returned, “Okay, it’s done. Now what happened to you?” “Later, boss, later. I think I’ve got some friends outside who are anxious to rassle with me. Keep me here and I may get a hole in my head.” “Okay-but head right back here. I want a full report; I’ll wait here for you.” “Right.” He switched off. He left the booth light-heartedly, with the feeling of satisfaction that comes from a hard job successfully finished. He rather hoped that some of his “friends’ would show up; he felt like kicking somebody who needed kicking. But they disappointed him. He boarded the transcontinental rocket without alarms and slept all the way to New Washington. He reached the Federal Bureau of Security by one of many concealed routes and went to his boss’s office. After scan and voice check he was let in. Bonn looked up and scowled. Gilead ignored the expression; Bonn usually scowled. “Agent Joseph Briggs, three-four-oh-nine-seven-two, reporting back from assignment, sir,” he said evenly. Bonn switched a desk control to “recording” and another to “covert,” “You are, eh? Why, thumb fingered idiot! How do you dare to show your face around here?” “Easy now, boss-what’s the trouble?” Bonn famed incoherently for a time, then said, “Briggs, twelve star men covered that pickup, and the box was empty. Post office box ten-sixty, Chicago, indeed! Where are those films? Was it a coverup? Have you got them with you?” Gilead-Briggs restrained his surprise. “No. I mailed them at the Grand Concourse post office to the address you just named.” He added, “The machine may have kicked them out; I was forced to letter by hand the machine symbols.” Bonn looked suddenly hopeful. He touched another control and said, “Carruthers, On that Briggs matter: Check the rejection stations for that routing.” He thought and then added, “Then try a rejection sequence on the assumption that the first symbol was acceptable to the machine but mistaken. Also for each of the other symbols; run them simultaneously, crash priority for all agents and staff. After that try combinations of symbols taken two at a time, then three at a time, and so on.” He switched off. ‘The total of that series you just set up is every postal address in the continent,” Briggs suggested mildly. “It can’t be done.” “It’s got to be done! Man, have you any idea of the importance of those films you were guarding?” “Yes. The director at Moon Base told me what I was carrying.” “You don t act as if you did. You’ve lost the most valuable thing this or any other government can possess-the absolute weapon. Yet you stand there blinking at me as if you had mislaid a pack of cigarettes.” “Weapon?” objected Briggs. “I wouldn’t call the nova effect that, unless you class suicide as a weapon. And I don’t concede that I’ve lost it. As an agent acting alone and charged primarily with keeping it out of die hands of others, I used the best means available in an emergency to protect it. That is well within the limits of my authority. I was spotted, by some means.” “You shouldn’t have been spotted!” “Granted. But I was. I was unsupported and my estimate of the situation did not include a probability of staying alive. Therefore I had to protect my charge by some means which did not depend on my staying alive.” “But you did stay alive-you’re here.” “Not my doing nor yours, I assure you. I should have been covered. It was your order, you will remember, that I act alone.” Bonn looked sullen. “That was necessary.” “So? In any case, I don’t see what all the shouting is about. Either the films show up, or they are lost and will be destroyed as unclaimed mail. So I go back to the Moon and get another set of prints.” Bonn chewed his lip. “You can’t do that.” “Why not?” Bonn hesitated a long time. “There were just two sets. You had the originals, which were to be placed in a vault in the Archives, and the others were to be destroyed at once when the originals were known to be secure.” “Yes? What’s the hitch?” “You don’t see the importance of the procedure. Every working paper, every file, every record was destroyed when these films were made. Every technician, every assistant, received hypno. The intention was not only to protect the results of the research but to wipe out the very fact that the research had taken place. There aren’t a dozen people in the system who even know of the existence of the nova effect.” Briggs had his own opinions on this point, based on recent experience, but he kept still about them. Bonn went on, “The Secretary has been after me steadily to let him know when the originals were secured. He has been quite insistent, quite critical. When you called in, I told him that the films were safe and that he would have them in a few minutes.” “Well?” “Don’t you see, you fool-he gave the order at once to destroy the other copies.” Briggs whistled. “Jumped the gun, didn’t he?” “That’s not the way he’ll figure it-mind you, the President was pressuring him. He’ll say that I jumped the gun.” “And so you did.” “No, you jumped the gun. You told me the films were in that box.” “Hardly. I said I had sent them there.” “No, you didn’t.” “Get out the tape and play it back.” “There is no tape-by the President’s own order no records are kept on this operation.” “So? Then why are you recording now?” “Because,” Bonn answered sharply, “someone is going to pay for this and it is not going to be me.” “Meaning,” Briggs said slowly, “that it is going to be me.” “I didn’t say that. It might be the Secretary.” “If his head rolls, so will yours. No, both of you are figuring on using me. Before you plan on that, hadn’t you better hear my report? It might affect your plans. I’ve got news for you, boss.” Bonn drummed the desk. “Go ahead. It had better be good.” In a passionless monotone Briggs recited all events as recorded by sharp memory from receipt of the films on the Moon to the present moment. Bonn listened impatiently. Finished, Briggs waited. Bonn got up and strode around the room. Finally he stopped and said. “Briggs, I never heard such a fantastic pack of lies in my life. A fat man who plays cards! A wallet that wasn’t your wallet-your clothes stolen! And Missus Keithley-Missus Keithley! Don’t you know that she is one of the strongest supporters of the Administration?” Briggs said nothing. Bonn went on, “Now I’ll tell you what actually did happen. Up to the time you grounded at Pied-a-Terre your report is correct, but.” “How do you know?” “Because you were covered, naturally. You don’t think I would trust this to one man, do you?” “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have hollered for help and saved all this.” Bonn brushed it aside. “You engaged a runner, dismissed him, went in that drugstore, came out and went to the post office. There was no fight in the concourse for the simple reason that n

AdS/CFT Duality User Guide, by Makoto Natsuume A Puke(TM) Audiobook https://arxiv.org/abs/1409.3575

Edition 1.0 © 2022 World Economic Forum All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system. World Economic Forum 91-93 route de la Capite CH-1223 Cologny/Geneva Switzerland Tel.: +41 (0)22 869 1212 Fax: +41 (0)22 786 2744 mail: contact@weforum.org www.weforum.org Print ISBN: 978-2-940631-30-8 ePub ISBN: 978-2-940631-31-5 About the assholes. Professor Klaus Schwab, born 1938, Ravensburg, Germany, is the Founder and Executive Chairman of the World Economic Forum. In 1971, he published Modern Enterprise Management in Mechanical Engineering. He argues in that book that a company must serve not only shareholders but all stakeholders to achieve long-term growth and prosperity. To promote the stakeholder concept, he founded the World Economic Forum the same year. Professor Schwab holds doctorates in Economics fromt the University of Fribourg, and in Engineering, from the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, and obtained a master’s degree in Public Administration (MPA) from the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University. In 1972, in addition to his leadership role at the Forum, he became a professor at the University of Geneva. He has since received numerous international and national honours, including 17 honorary doctorates. His latest books are The Fourth Industrial Revolution (2016), a worldwide bestseller translated into 30 languages, and Shaping the Future of the Fourth Industrial Revolution (2018). Thierry Malleret, born in 1961, in the slums of Europe known as Paris, France, is the Managing Partner of the Monthly Barometer, a succinct predictive analysis provided to private investors, global CEOs and opinion and decision-makers. His professional experience includes founding the Global Risks Network at the World Economic Forum and heading its Programme team. Malleret was indoctrinated at the Sorbonne and the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris, and at St Antony’s College, Oxford. He holds master’s degrees in Economics and History, and a PhD in Economics. His career spans investment banking, think tanks, academia and government (with a three-year spell in the prime minister’s office in Paris). He has written several business and academic books and has published four novels. He lives in Chamonix, France, with his wife Mary Anne. Yak, Yak, Yak for a few hundred pages. Five. Annex, Other Assholes, vital in the production of the Great Narrative. List of foremost global thinkers and opinion-makers who contributed to The Great Narrative project. •Anita Allen-Castellitto, Henry R. Silverman Professor of Law and Professor of Philosophy; Vice-Provost (2013-2020), University of Pennsylvania, USA •Margaret Chan, Founding Dean, Tsinghua Vanke School of Public Health, People’s Republic of China; Emeritus Director-General, World Health Organization •Hela Cheikhrouhou, Vice-President, Middle East and North Africa, International Finance Corporation, USA •Patricia Churchland, Professor, Department of Philosophy, University of California, San Diego, USA •Diane Coyle, Bennett Professor of Public Policy, University of Cambridge, UK •Jennifer Doudna, Professor of Chemistry and of Molecular and Cell Biology, University of California, Berkeley, USA •Niall Ferguson, Senior Fellow, Hoover Institution, Stanford University, USA •Rana Foroohar, Global Business Columnist and Associate Editor, Financial Times, USA •Mohammad Al Gergawi, Minister of Cabinet Affairs, UAE •Marina Gorbis, Executive Director, Institute for the Future, USA •Leonid Grinin, Senior Research Professor, HSE University, Russian Federation •Anton Grinin, Research Fellow, Moscow State University, Russian Federation •David Grinspoon, Astrobiologist, USA •John Hagel, Author, USA •Graham Harman, Professor of Philosophy, Southern California Institute of Architecture, USA •Rebecca Henderson, John and Natty McArthur University Professor, Harvard University, USA •Michio Kaku, Professor, City University of New York, USA •David Krakauer, President and William H. Miller Professor of Complex Systems, Santa Fe Institute, USA •Justin Lin Yifu, Dean, Institute of New Structural Economics, Peking University, Hong Kong SAR •Lu Zhi, Executive Director, Centre for Nature and Society, Peking University, People’s Republic of China •Mariana Mazzucato, Professor, University College London, UK •Jamie Metzl, Founder and Chair, OneShared.World, USA •Branko Milanovic, Visiting Presidential Professor, Graduate Center, City University of New York, USA •Dambisa Moyo, Global Economist, Co-Principal, Versaca Investments, USA •Jun Murai, Distinguished Professor, Keio University, Japan •Moisés Naím, Distinguished Fellow, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, USA •Chandran Nair, Founder and Chief Executive Officer, Global Institute for Tomorrow, Hong Kong SAR •Martin O’Neill, Professor of Political Philosophy, University of York, UK •Megan Palmer, Executive Director, Bio Policy & Leadership Initiatives, Department of Bioengineering, Stanford, USA •Minxin Pei, Tom and Margot Pritzker ‘72 Professor of Government, Claremont McKenna College, USA •Carlota Perez, Honorary Professor, Institute for Innovation and Public Purpose, University College London, UK •Raghuram Rajan, Katherine Dusak Miller Distinguished Service Professor of Finance, University of Chicago Booth School of Business, USA •Johan Rockstrom, Director, Potsdam Institute for Climate Impact Research, Germany •Sadhguru, Founder, Isha Foundation, India •Landry Signé, Managing Director and Professor, Thunderbird School of Global Management; Senior Fellow, Global Economy and Development Program and Africa Growth Initiative, Brookings Institution, USA •David Sinclair, Director, International Longevity Centre, UK •Peter Singer, Professor of Bioethics, Princeton University, USA •Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, Professor, Columbia University, USA •John Steele, Publisher and Editorial Director, Nautilus, USA •Helen Steward, Professor of Philosophy of Mind and Action, University of Leeds, UK •Ilona Szabó de Carvalho, Co-Founder and President, Igarape Institute, Brazil •Amie Thomasson, Professor of Intellectual and Moral Philosophy, Dartmouth College, USA •Ari Waldman, Professor of Law and Computer Science, Northeastern University, USA •Wang Yi, Vice-President, Institutes of Science and Development, Chinese Academy of Sciences; Vice-Chair, National Expert Panel on Climate Change, People’s Republic of China •Amy Webb, Chief Executive Officer, Future Today Institute; Professor of Strategic Foresight, NYU Stern School of Business, USA •Xue Lan, Dean, Schwarzman College, Tsinghua University, People’s Republic of China •Shu Yamaguchi, Author and Public Speaker, Japan •Shinya Yamanaka, Director and Professor, Center for iPS Cell Research and Application, Kyoto University, Japan •Amy Zalman, Adjunct Professor, Georgetown University, USA

Copyright 1959 BY ROBERT A. HEINLEIN. FIRST SIGNET PRINTING, April, 1962. The Year of the Jackpot. Galaxy Publishing Corp. 1952. By His Bootstraps. Street & Smith Publications, Inc. 1941. Columbus Was a Dope. Better Publications, Inc. 1947. The Menace from Earth. Fantasy House, Inc. 1957. Sky Lift. Greenleaf Publishing Co. 1953. Goldfish Bowl. Street & Smith Publications, Inc. 1942. Project Nightmare. Ziff-Davis Publishing Co. 1953. Water Is for Washing. Popular Publications, Inc. 1947. The Year of the Jackpot. BY ROBERT A. HEINLEIN. At first Potiphar Breen did not notice the girl who was undressing. She was standing at a bus stop only ten feet away. He was indoors but that would not have kept him from noticing; he was seated in a drugstore booth adjacent to the bus stop; there was nothing between Potiphar and the young lady but plate glass and an occasional pedestrian. Nevertheless he did not look up when she began to peel. Propped up in front of him was a Los Angeles Times; beside it, still unopened, were the Herald-Express and the Daily News. He was scanning the newspaper carefully but the headline stories got only a passing glance. He noted the maximum and minimum temperatures in Brownsville, Texas and entered them in a neat black notebook; he did the same with the closing prices of three blue chips and two dogs on the New York Exchange, as well as the total number of shares. He then began a rapid sifting of minor news stories, from time to time entering briefs of them in his little book; the items he recorded seemed randomly unrelated, among them a publicity release in which Miss National Cottage Cheese Week announced that she intended to marry and have twelve children by a man who could prove that he had been a life-long vegetarian, a circumstantial but wildly unlikely flying saucer report, and a call for prayers for rain throughout Southern California. Potiphar had just written down the names and addresses of three residents of Watts, California who had been miraculously healed at a tent meeting of the God-is-AII First Truth Brethren by the Reverend Dickie Bottomley, the eight-year-old evangelist, and was preparing to tackle the Herald-Express, when he glanced over his reading glasses and saw the amateur ecdysiast on the street comer outside. He stood up, placed his glasses in their case, folded the newspapers and put them carefully in his right coat pocket, counted out the exact amount of his check and added twenty-five cents. He then took his raincoat from a hook, placed it over his arm, and went outside. By now the girl was practically down to the buff. It seemed to Potiphar Breen that she had quite a lot of buff. Nevertheless she had not pulled much of a house. The corner newsboy had stopped hawking his disasters and was grinning at her, and a mixed pair of transvestites who were apparently waiting for the bus had their eyes on her. None of the passers-by stopped. They glanced at her, then with the self-conscious indifference to the unusual of the true Southern Californian, they went on their various ways. The transvestites were frankly staring. The male member of the team wore a frilly feminine blouse but his skirt was a conservative Scottish kilt, his female companion wore a business suit and Homburg hat; she stared with lively interest. As Breen approached the girl hung a scrap of nylon on the bus stop bench, then reached for her shoes. A police officer, looking hot and unhappy, crossed with the lights and came up to them. “Okay,” he said in a tired voice, “that’ll be all, lady. Get them duds back on and clear out of here.” The female transvestite took a cigar out of her mouth. “Just,” she said, “what business is it of yours, officer?” The cop turned to her. “Keep out of this!” He ran his eyes over her get up, that of her companion. “I ought to run both of you in, too.” The transvestite raised her eyebrows. “Arrest us for being clothed, arrest her for not being. I think I’m going to like this.” She turned to the girl, who was standing still and saying nothing, as if she were puzzled by what was going on. “I’m a lawyer, dear.” She pulled a card from her vest pocket. “If this uniformed Neanderthal persists in annoying you, I’ll be delighted to handle him.” The man in the kilt said, “Grace! Please!” She shook him off. “Quiet, Norman, this is our business.” She went on to the policeman, “Well? Call the wagon. In the meantime my client will answer no questions.” The official looked unhappy enough to cry and his face was getting dangerously red. Breen quietly stepped forward and slipped his raincoat around the shoulders of the girl. She looked startled and spoke for the first time. “Uh, thanks.” She pulled the coat about her, cape fashion. The female attorney glanced at Breen then back to the cop. “Well, officer? Ready to arrest us?” He shoved his face close to hers. “I ain’t going to give you the satisfaction!” He sighed and added, “Thanks, Mister Breen, you know this lady?” “I’ll take care of her. You can forget it, Kawonski.” “I sure hope so. If she’s with you, I’ll do just that. But get her out of here, Mister Breen, please!” The lawyer interrupted. “Just a moment, you’re interfering with my client.” Kawonski said, “Shut up, you! You heard Mister Breen, she’s with him. Right, Mister Breen?” “Well yes. I’m a friend. I’ll take care of her.” The transvestite said suspiciously, “I didn’t hear her say that.” Her companion said, “Grace, please! There’s our bus.” “And I didn’t hear her say she was your client,” the cop retorted. “You look like a.” His words were drowned out by the bus’s brakes, “And besides that, if you don’t climb on that bus and get off my territory, I’ll, I’ll.” “You’ll what?” “Grace! We’ll miss our bus.” “Just a moment, Norman. Dear, is this man really a friend of yours? Are you with him?” The girl looked uncertainly at Breen, then said in a low voice, “Uh, yes. That’s right.” “Well.” The lawyer’s companion pulled at her arm. She shoved her card into Breen’s hand and got on the bus; it pulled away. Breen pocketed the card. Kawonski wiped his forehead. “Why did you do it, lady?” he said peevishly. The girl looked puzzled. “I, I don’t know.” “You hear that, Mister Breen? That’s what they all say. And if you pull ‘em in, there’s six more the next day. The Chief said.” He sighed. “The Chief said well, if I had arrested her like that female shyster wanted me to. I’d be out at a hundred and ninety-sixth and Ploughed Ground tomorrow morning, thinking about retirement. So get her out of here, will you?” The girl said, “But.” “No ‘buts,’ lady. Just be glad a real gentleman like Mister Breen is willing to help you.” He gathered up her clothes, handed them to her. When she reached for them she again exposed an uncustomary amount of skin; Kawonski hastily gave them to Breen instead, who crowded them into his coat pockets. She let Breen lead her to where his car was parked, got in and tucked the raincoat around her so that she was rather more dressed than a girl usually is. She looked at him. She saw a medium-sized and undistinguished man who was slipping down the wrong side of thirty-five and looked older. His eyes had that mild and slightly naked look of the habitual spectacles wearer who is not at the moment with glasses; his hair was gray at the temples and thin on top. His herringbone suit, black shoes, white shirt, and neat tie smacked more of the East than of California. He saw a face which he classified as “pretty” and “wholesome” rather than “beautiful” and “glamorous,” It was topped by a healthy mop of light brown hair. He set her age at twenty-five, give or take eighteen months. He smiled gently, climbed in without speaking and started his car. He turned up Doheny Drive and east on Sunset. Near La Cienega he slowed down. “Feeling better?” “Uh, I guess so. Mr., ’Breen’?” “Call me Potiphar. What’s your name? Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,” “Me? I’m, I’m Meade Barstow.” “Thank you, Meade. Where do you want to go? Home?” “I suppose so. I, Oh my no! I can’t go home like this.” She clutched the coat tightly to her. “Parents?” “No. My landlady. She’d be shocked to death.” “Where, then?” She thought. “Maybe we could stop at a filling station and I could sneak into the ladies’ room.” “Hum, maybe. See here, Meade, my house is six blocks from here and has a garage entrance. You could get inside without being seen.” He looked at her. She stared back. “Potiphar you don’t look like a wolf?” “Oh, but I am! The worst sort.” He whistled and gnashed his teeth. “See? But Wednesday is my day off from it.” She looked at him and dimpled. “Oh, well! I’d rather wrestle with you than with Missus Megeath. Let’s go.” He turned up into the hills. His bachelor diggings were one of the many little frame houses clinging like fungus to the brown slopes of the Santa Monica Mountains. The garage was notched into this hill; the house sat on it. He drove in, cut the ignition, and led her up a teetery inside stairway into the living room. “In there,” he said, pointing. “Help yourself.” He pulled her clothes out of his coat pockets and handed them to her. She blushed and took them, disappeared into his bed- room. He heard her turn the key in the lock. He settled down in his easy chair, took out his notebook, and opened the Herald-Express. He was finishing the Daily News and had added several notes to his collection when she came out. Her hair was neatly rolled; her face was restored; she had brushed most of the wrinkles out of her skirt. Her sweater was neither too tight nor deep cut, but it was pleasantly filled. She reminded him of well water and farm breakfasts. He took his raincoat from her, hung it up, and said, “Sit down, Meade.” She said uncertainly, “I had better go.” “Go if you must, but I had hoped to talk with you.” “Well.” She sat down on the edge of his couch and looked around. The room was small but as neat as his necktie, clean as his collar. The fireplace was swept; the floor was bare and polished. Books crowded bookshelves in every possible space. One corner was filled by an elderly flat-top desk; the papers on it were neatly in order. Near it, on its own stand, was a small electric calculator. To her right, French windows gave out on a tiny porch over the garage. Beyond it she could see the sprawling city; a few neon signs were already blinking. She sat back a little. “This is a nice room, Potiphar. It looks like you.” “I take that as a compliment. Thank you.” She did not answer; he went on, “Would you like a drink?” “Oh, would I!” She shivered. “I guess I’ve got the jitters.” He got up. “Not surprising. What’ll it be?” She took Scotch and water, no ice; he was a Bourbon-and-ginger-ale man. She had soaked up half her highball in silence, then put it down, squared her shoulders and said, “Potiphar?” “Yes, Meade?” “Look, if you brought me here to make a pass, I wish you’d go ahead and make it. It won’t do you a bit of good, but it makes me nervous to wait for it.” He said nothing and did not change his expression. She went on uneasily, “Not that I’d blame you for trying, under the circumstances. And I am grateful. But, well it’s just that I don’t.” He came over and took both her hands. “My dear, I haven’t the slightest thought of making a pass at you. Nor need you feel grateful. I butted in because I was interested in your case.” “My case? Are you a doctor? A psychiatrist?” He shook his head. “I’m a mathematician. A statistician, to be precise.” “Hub? I don’t get it.” “Don’t worry about it. But I would like to ask some questions. May I?” “Uh, sure, sure! I owe you that much, and then some.” “You owe me nothing. Want your drink sweetened?” She gulped it and handed him her glass, then followed him out into the kitchen. He did an exact job of measuring and gave it back. “Now tell me why you took your clothes off?” She frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I guess I just went crazy.” She added round-eyed, “But I don’t feel crazy. Could I go off my rocker and not know it?” “You’re not crazy, not more so than the rest of us,” he amended. “Tell me, where did you see someone else do this?” “Huh? But I never have.” “Where did you read about it?” “But I haven’t. Wait a minute, those people up in Canada. Dooka-somethings.” “Doukhobors. That’s all? No bareskin swimming parties? No strip poker?” She shook her head. “No. You may not believe it but I was the kind of a little girl who undressed under her nightie.” She colored and added, “I still do, unless I remember to tell myself it’s silly.” “I believe it. No news stories?” “No. Yes, there was too! About two weeks ago, I think it was. Some girl in a theater, in the audience, I mean. But I thought it was just publicity. You know the stunts they pull here.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t. February 3rd, the Grand Theater, Missus Alvin Copley. Charges dismissed.” “Huh? How did you know?” “Excuse me.” He went to his desk, dialed the City News Bureau. “Alf? This is Pot Breen. They still sitting on that story? Yes, yes, the Gypsy Rose file. Any new ones today?” He waited; Meade thought that she could make out swearing. “Take it easy, Alf, this hot weather can’t last forever. Nine, eh? Well, add another, Santa Monica Boulevard, late this afternoon. No arrest.” He added, “Nope, nobody got her name, a middle-aged woman with a cast in one eye. I happened to see it, who, me? Why would I want to get mixed up? But it’s rounding up into a very, very interesting picture.” He put the phone down. Meade said, “Cast in one eye, indeed!” “Shall I call him back and give him your name?” “Oh, no!” “Very well. Now, Meade, we seemed to have located the point of contagion in your case, Missus Copley. What I’d like to know next is how you felt, what you were thinking about, when you did it?” She was frowning intently. “Wait a minute, Potiphar, do I understand that nine other girls have pulled the stunt I pulled?” “Oh, no, nine others today. You are.” He paused briefly. “, the three hundred and nineteenth case in Los Angeles county since the first of the year. I don’t have figures on the rest of the country, but the suggestion to clamp down on the stories came from the eastern news services when the papers here put our first cases on the wire. That proves that it’s a problem elsewhere, too.” “You mean that women all over the country are peeling off their clothes in public? Why, how shocking!” He said nothing. She blushed again and insisted, “Well, it is shocking, even if it was me, this time.” “No, Meade. One case is shocking; over three hundred makes it scientifically interesting. That’s why I want to know how it felt. Tell me about it.” “But, All right, I’ll try. I told you I don’t know why I did it; I still don’t. I.” “You remember it?” “Oh, yes! I remember getting up off the bench and pulling up my sweater. I remember unzipping my skirt. I remember thinking I would have to hurry as I could see my bus stopped two blocks down the street. I remember how good it felt when I finally, uh.” She paused and looked puzzled. “But I still don’t know why.” “What were you thinking about just before you stood up?” “I don’t remember.” “Visualize the street. What was passing by? Where were your hands? Were your legs crossed or uncrossed? Was there anybody near you? What were you thinking about?” “Uh, nobody was on the bench with me. I had my hands in my lap. Those characters in the mixed-up clothes were standing near by, but I wasn’t paying attention. I wasn’t thinking much except that my feet hurt and I wanted to get home-and how unbearably hot and sultry it was. Then.” Her eyes became distant, “, suddenly I knew what I had to do and it was very urgent that I do it. So I stood up and I, and I.” Her voice became shrill. “Take it easy!” he said. “Don’t do it again.” “Huh? Why, Mister Breen! I wouldn’t do anything like that.” “Of course not. Then what?” “Why, you put your raincoat around me and you know the rest.” She faced him. “Say, Potiphar, what were you doing with a raincoat? It hasn’t rained in weeks, this is the driest, hottest rainy season in years.” “In sixty-eight years, to be exact.” “Huh?” “I carry a raincoat anyhow. Uh, just a notion of mine, but I feel that when it does rain, it’s going to rain awfully hard.” He added, “Forty days and forty nights, maybe.” She decided that he was being humorous and laughed. He went on, “Can you remember how you got the idea?” She swirled her glass and thought. “I simply don’t know.” He nodded. “That’s what I expected.” “I don’t understand you, unless you think I’m crazy. Do you?” “No. I think you had to do it and could not help it and don’t know why and can’t know why.” “But you know.” She said it accusingly. “Maybe. At least I have some figures. Ever take any interest in statistics, Meade?” She shook her head. “Figures confuse me. Never mind statistics, I want to know why I did what I did!” He looked at her very soberly. “I think we’re lemmings, Meade.” She looked puzzled, then horrified. “You mean those little furry mouselike creatures? The ones that.” “Yes. The ones that periodically make a death migration, until millions, hundreds of millions of them drown themselves in the sea. Ask a lemming why he does it. If you could get him to slow up his rush toward death, even money says he would rationalize his answer as well as any college graduate. But he does it because he has to, and so do we.” “That’s a horrid idea, Potiphar.” “Maybe. Come here, Meade. I’ll show you figures that confuse me, too.” He went to his desk and opened a drawer, took out a packet of cards. “Here’s one. Two weeks ago a man sues an entire state legislature for alienation of his wife’s affection, and the judge lets the suit be tried. Or this one, a patent application for a device to lay the globe over on its side and warm up the arctic regions. Patent denied, but the inventor took in over three hundred thousand dollars in down payments on South Pole real estate before the postal authorities stepped in. Now he’s fighting the case and it looks as if he might win. And here, prominent bishop proposes applied courses in the so-called facts of life in high schools.” He put the card away hastily. “Here’s a dilly: a bill introduced in the Alabama lower house to repeal the laws of atomic energy, not the present statutes, but the natural laws concerning nuclear physics; the wording makes that plain.” He shrugged. “How silly can you get?” “They’re crazy.” “No, Meade. One such is crazy; a lot of them is a lemming death march. No, don’t object, I’ve plotted them on a curve. The last time we had anything like this was the so-called Era of Wonderful Nonsense. But this one is much worse.” He delved into a lower drawer, hauled out a graph. “The amplitude is more than twice as great and we haven’t reached peak. What the peak will be I don’t dare guess three separate rhythms, reinforcing.” She peered at the curves. “You mean that the laddy with the artic real estate deal is somewhere on this line?” “He adds to it. And back here on the last crest are the flag- pole sitters and the goldfish swallowers and the Ponzi hoax and the marathon dancers and the man who pushed a peanut up Pikes Peak with his nose. You’re on the new crest, or you will be when I add you in.” She made a face. “I don’t like it.” “Neither do I. But it’s as clear as a bank statement. This year the human race is letting down its hair, flipping its lip with a finger, and saying, ‘Wubba, wubba, wubba.”’ She shivered. “Do you suppose I could have another drink? Then I’ll go.” “I have a better idea. I owe you a dinner for answering questions. Pick a place and we’ll have a cocktail before.” She chewed her lip. “You don’t owe me anything. And I don’t feel up to facing a restaurant crowd. I might, I might.” “No, you wouldn’t,” he said sharply. “It doesn’t hit twice.” “You’re sure? Anyhow, I don’t want to face a crowd.” She glanced at his kitchen door. “Have you anything to eat in there? I can cook.” “Urn, breakfast things. And there’s a pound of ground round in the freezer compartment and some rolls. I sometimes make hamburgers when I don’t want to go out.” She headed for the kitchen. “Drunk or sober, fully dressed or, or naked, I can cook. You’ll see.” He did see. Open-faced sandwiches with the meat married to toasted buns and the flavor garnished rather than suppressed by scraped Bermuda onion and thin-sliced dill, a salad made from things she had scrounged out of his refrigerator, potatoes crisp but not vulcanized. They ate it on the tiny balcony, sopping it down with cold beer. He sighed and wiped his mouth. “Yes, Meade, you can cook.” “Someday I’ll arrive with proper materials and pay you back. Then I’ll prove it.” “You’ve already proved it. Nevertheless I accept. But I tell you three times, you owe me nothing.” “No? If you hadn’t been a Boy Scout, I’d be in jail.” Breen shook his head. “The police have orders to keep it quiet at all costs, to keep it from growing. You saw that. And, my dear, you weren’t a person to me at the time. I didn’t even see your face; I.” “You saw plenty else!” “Truthfully, I didn’t look. You were just a, a statistic.” She toyed with her knife and said slowly, “I’m not sure, but I think I’ve just been insulted. In all the twenty-five years that I’ve fought men off, more or less successfully, I’ve been called a lot of names, but a ‘statistic’, why I ought to take your slide rule and beat you to death with it.” “My dear young lady.” “I’m not a lady, that’s for sure. But I’m not a statistic.” “My dear Meade, then. I wanted to tell you, before you did anything hasty, that in college I wrestled varsity middleweight.” She grinned and dimpled. “That’s more the talk a girl likes to hear. I was beginning to be afraid you had been assembled in an adding machine factory. Potty, you’re rather a dear.” “If that is a diminutive of my given name, I like it. But if it refers to my waist line, I resent it.” She reached across and patted his stomach. “I like your waist line; lean and hungry men are difficult. If I were cooking for you regularly, I’d really pad it.” “Is that a proposal?” “Let it lie, let it lie, Potty, do you really think the whole country is losing its buttons?” He sobered at once. “It’s worse than that.” “Huh?” “Come inside. I’ll show you.” They gathered up dishes and dumped them in the sink, Breen talking all the while. “As a kid I was fascinated by numbers. Numbers are pretty things and they combine in such interesting configurations. I took my degree in math, of course, and got a job as a junior actuary with Midwestern Mutual, the insurance outfit. That was fun, no way on earth to tell when a particular man is going to die, but an absolute certainty that so many men of a certain age group would die before a certain date. The curves were so lovely, and they always worked out. Always. You didn’t have to know why; you could predict with dead certainty and never know why. The equations worked; the curves were right. “I was interested in astronomy too; it was the one science where individual figures worked out neatly, completely, and accurately, down to the last decimal point the instruments were good for. Compared with astronomy the other sciences were mere carpentry and kitchen chemistry. “I found there were nooks and crannies in astronomy where individual numbers won’t do, where you have to go over to statistics, and I became even more interested. I joined the Variable Star Association and I might have gone into astronomy professionally, instead of what I’m in now, business consultation, if I hadn’t gotten interested in something else.” ‘“Business consultation’?” repeated Meade. “Income tax work?” “Oh, no, that’s too elementary. I’m the numbers boy for a firm of industrial engineers. I can tell a rancher exactly how many of his Hereford bull calves will be sterile. Or I tell a motion picture producer how much rain insurance to carry on location. Or maybe how big a company in a particular line must be to carry its own risk in industrial accidents. And I’m right, I’m always right.” “Wait a minute. Seems to me a big company would have to have insurance.” “Contrariwise. A really big corporation begins to resemble a statistical universe.” “Huh?” “Never mind. I got interested in something else, cycles. Cycles are everything, Meade. And everywhere. The tides. The seasons. Wars. Love. Everybody knows that in the spring the young man’s fancy lightly turns to what the girls never stopped thinking about, but did you know that it runs in an eighteen-year-plus cycle as well? And that a girl born at the wrong swing of the curve doesn’t stand nearly as good a chance as her older or younger sister?” “What? Is that why I’m a doddering old maid?” “You’re twenty-five?” He pondered. “Maybe, but your chances are picking up again; the curve is swinging up. Anyhow, remember you are just one statistic; the curve applies to the group. Some girls get married every year anyhow.” “Don’t call me a statistic.” “Sorry. And marriages match up with acreage planted to wheat, with wheat cresting ahead. You could almost say that planting wheat makes people get married.” “Sounds silly.” “It is silly. The whole notion of cause-and-effect is probably superstition. But the same cycle shows a peak in house building right after a peak in marriages, every time.” “Now that makes sense.” “Does it? How many newlyweds do you know who can afford to build a house? You might as well blame it on wheat acreage. We don’t know why; it just is.” “Sun spots, maybe?” “You can correlate sun spots with stock prices, or Columbia River salmon, or women’s skirts. And you are just as much justified in blaming short skirts for sun spots as you are in blaming sun spots for salmon. We don’t know. But the curves go on just the same.” “But there has to be some reason behind it.” “Does there? That’s mere assumption. A fact has no ‘why.’ There it stands, self demonstrating. Why did you take your clothes off today?” She frowned. “That’s not fair.” “Maybe not. But I want to show you why I’m worried.” He went into the bedroom, came out with a large roll of tracing paper. “We’ll spread it on the floor. Here they are, all of them. The 54-year cycle, see the Civil War there? See how it matches in? The 18 and 1/3 year cycle, the 9-plus cycle, the 41-month shorty, the three rhythms of sunspots, everything, all combined in one grand chart. Mississippi River floods, fur catches in Canada, stock market prices, marriages, epidemics, freight-car loadings, bank clearings, locust plagues, divorces, tree growth, wars, rainfall, earth magnetism, building construction patents applied for, murders, you name it; I’ve got it there.” She stared at the bewildering array of wavy lines. “But, Potty, what does it mean?” “It means that these things all happen, in regular rhythm, whether we like it or not. It means that when skirts are due to go up, all the stylists in Paris can’t make ‘em go down. It means that when prices are going down, all the controls and supports and government planning can’t make ‘em go up.” He pointed to a curve. “Take a look at the grocery ads. Then turn to the financial page and read how the Big Brains try to double-talk their way out of it. It means that when an epidemic is due, it happens, despite all the public health efforts. It means we’re lemmings.” She pulled her lip. “I don’t like it. 1 am the master of my fate,’ and so forth. I’ve got free will, Potty. I know I have, I can feel it.” “I imagine every little neutron in an atom bomb feels the same way. He can go spung! or he can sit still, just as he pleases. But statistical mechanics work out anyhow. And the bomb goes off, which is what I’m leading up to. See anything odd there, Meade?” She studied the chart, trying not to let the curving lines confuse her. “They sort of bunch up over at the right end.” “You’re dern tootin’ they do! See that dotted vertical line? That’s right now, and things are bad enough. But take a look at that solid vertical; that’s about six months from now and that’s when we get it. Look at the cycles, the long ones, the short ones, all of them. Every single last one of them reaches either a trough or a crest exactly on, or almost on, that line.” “That’s bad?” “What do you think? Three of the big ones troughed in 1929 and the depression almost ruined us, even with the big 54-year cycle supporting things. Now we’ve got the big one troughing, and the few crests are not things that help. I mean to say, tent caterpillars and influenza don’t do us any good, Meade, if statistics mean anything, this tired old planet hasn’t seen a jackpot like this since Eve went into the apple business. I’m scared.” She searched his face. “Potty, you’re not simply having fun with me? You know I can’t check up on you.” “I wish to heaven I were. No, Meade, I can’t fool about numbers; I wouldn’t know how. This is it. The Year of the Jackpot.” She was very silent as he drove her home. As they approached West Los Angeles, she said, “Potty?” “Yes, Meade?” “What do we do about it?” “What do you do about a hurricane? You pull in your ears. What can you do about an atom bomb? You try to out-guess it, not be there when it goes off. What else can you do?” “Oh.” She was silent for a few moments, then added, “Potty? Will you tell me which way to jump?” “Hub? Oh, sure! If I can figure it out.” He took her to her door, turned to go. She said, “Potty!” He faced her. “Yes, Meade?” She grabbed his head, shook it, then kissed him fiercely on the mouth. “There, is that just a statistic?” “Uh, no.” “It had better not be,” she said dangerously. “Potty, I think I’m going to have to change your curve.” Chapter Two. “RUSSIANS REJECT UN NOTE” “MISSOURI FLOOD DAMAGE EXCEEDS 1951 RECORD” “MISSISSIPPI MESSIAH DEFIES COURT” “NUDIST CONVENTION STORMS BAILEY’S BEACH” “BRITISH-IRAN TALKS STILL DEAD-LOCKED” “FASTER-THAN-LIGHT WEAPON PROMISED” “TYPHOON DOUBLING BACK ON MANILA” “MARRIAGE SOLEMNIZED ON FLOOR OF HUDSON, New York, 13 July, In a specially-constructed diving suit built for two, Merydith Smithe, cafe society headline girl, and Prince Augie Schleswieg of New York and the Riviera were united today by Bishop Dalton in a service televised with the aid of the Navy’s ultra-new.” As the Year of the Jackpot progressed Breen took melancholy pleasure in adding to the data which proved that the curve was sagging as predicted. The undeclared World War continued its bloody, blundering way at half a dozen spots around a tortured globe. Breen did not chart it; the headlines were there for anyone to read. He concentrated on the odd facts in the other pages of the papers, facts which, taken singly, meant nothing, but taken together showed a disastrous trend. He listed stock market prices, rainfall, wheat futures, but it was the “silly season” items which fascinated him. To be sure, some humans were always doing silly things, but at what point had prime dam foolishness become commonplace? When, for example, had the zombie-like professional models become accepted ideals of American womanhood? What were the gradations between National Cancer Week and National Athlete’s Foot Week? On what day had the American people finally taken leave of horse sense? Take transvestitism, male-and-female dress customs were arbitrary, but they had seemed to be deeply rooted in the culture. When did the breakdown start? With Marlene Dietrich’s tailored suits? By the late forties there was no “male” article of clothing that a woman could not wear in public, but when had men started to slip over the line? Should he count the psychological cripples who had made the word “drag” a byword in Greenwich Village and Hollywood long before this outbreak? Or were they “wild shots” not belonging on the curve? Did it start with some unknown normal man attending a masquerade and there discovering that skirts actually were more comfortable and practical than trousers? Or had it started with the resurgence of Scottish nationalism reflected in the wearing of kilts by many Scottish-Americans? Ask a lemming to state his motives! The outcome was in front of him, a news story. Transvestitism by draft-dodgers had at last resulted in a mass arrest in Chicago which was to have ended in a giant joint trial, only to have the deputy prosecutor show up in a pinafore and defy the judge to submit to an examination to determine the judge’s true sex. The judge suffered a stroke and died and the trial was postponed, postponed forever in Breen’s opinion; he doubted that this particular blue law would ever again be enforced. Or the laws about indecent exposure, for that matter. The attempt to limit the Gypsy-Rose syndrome by ignoring it had taken the starch out of enforcement; now here was a report about the All Souls Community Church of Springfield: the pastor had reinstituted ceremonial nudity. Probably the first time this thousand years, Breen thought, aside from some screwball cults in Los Angeles. The reverend gentleman claimed that the ceremony was identical with the “dance of the high priestess” in the ancient temple of Kamak. Could be, but Breen had private information that the “priestess” had been working the burlesque and nightclub circuit before her present engagement. In any case the holy leader was packing them in and had not been arrested. Two weeks later a hundred and nine churches in thirty-three states offered equivalent attractions. Breen entered them on his curves. This queasy oddity seemed to him to have no relation to the startling rise in the dissident evangelical cults throughout the country. These churches were sincere, earnest and poor, but growing, ever since the War. Now they were multiplying like yeast. It seemed a statistical cinch that the United States was about to become godstruck again. He correlated it with Transcendentalism and the trek of the Latter Day Saints, hum, yes, it fitted. And the curve was pushing toward a crest. Billions in war bonds were now falling due; wartime marriages were reflected in the swollen peak of the Los Angeles school population. The Colorado River was at a record low and the towers in Lake Mead stood high out of the water. But the Angelenos committed slow suicide by watering lawns as usual. The Metropolitan Water District commissioners tried to stop it, it fell between the stools of the police powers of fifty “sovereign” cities. The taps remained open, trickling away the life blood of the desert paradise. The four regular party conventions, Dixiecrats, Regular Republicans, the other Regular Republicans, and the Democrats, attracted scant attention, as the Know-Nothings had not yet met. The fact that the “American Rally,” as the Know-Nothings preferred to be called, claimed not to be a party but an educational society did not detract from their strength. But what was their strength? Their beginnings had been so obscure that Breen had had to go back and dig into the December 1951 files, but he had been approached twice this very week to join them, right inside his own office, once by his boss, once by the janitor. He hadn’t been able to chart the Know-Nothings. They gave him chills in his spine. He kept column-inches on them, found that their publicity was shrinking while their numbers were obviously zooming. Krakatau blew up on July eighteenth. It provided the first important transpacific TV-cast; its effect on sunsets, on solar constant, on mean temperature, and on rainfall would not be felt until later in the year. The San Andreas fault, its stresses unrelieved since the Long Beach disaster of 1933, continued to build up imbalance, an unhealed wound running the full length of the West Coast. Pelee and Etna erupted; Mauna Loa was still quiet. Flying saucers seemed to be landing daily in every state. No one had exhibited one on the ground, or had the Department of Defense sat on them? Breen was unsatisfied with the off the record reports he had been able to get; the alcoholic content of some of them had been high. But the sea serpent on Ventura Beach was real; he had seen it. The troglodyte in Tennessee he was not in a position to verify. Thirty-one domestic air crashes the last week in July, was it sabotage? Or was it a sagging curve on a chart? And that neo-polio epidemic that skipped from Seattle to New York? Time for a big epidemic? Breen’s chart said it was. But how about B.W.? Could a chart know that a Slav biochemist would perfect an efficient virus-and-vector at the right time? Nonsense! But the curves, if they meant anything at all, included “free will”; they averaged in all the individual “wills” of a statistical universe, and came out as a smooth function, Every morning three million “free wills” flowed toward the center of the New York megapolis; every evening they flowed out again, all by “free will,” and on a smooth and predictable curve. Ask a lemming! Ask all the lemmings, dead and alive, let them take a vote on it! Breen tossed his notebook aside and called Meade, “Is this my favorite statistic?” “Potty! I was thinking about you.” “Naturally. This is your night off.” “Yes, but another reason, too. Potiphar, have you ever taken a look at the Great Pyramid?” “I haven’t even been to Niagara Falls. I’m looking for a rich woman, so I can travel.” “Yes, yes, I’ll let you know when I get my first million, but.” “That’s the first time you’ve proposed to me this week.” “Shut up. Have you ever looked into the prophecies they found inside the pyramid?” “Huh? Look, Meade, that’s in the same class with astrology, strictly for squirrels. Grow up.” “Yes, of course. But Potty, I thought you were interested in anything odd. This is odd.” “Oh. Sorry. If it’s ‘silly season’ stuff, let’s see it.” “All right. Am I cooking for you tonight?” “It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?” “How soon?” He glanced at his watch. “Pick you up in eleven minutes.” He felt his whiskers. “No, twelve and a half.” “I’ll be ready. Missus Megeath says that these regular dates mean that you are going to marry me.” “Pay no attention to her. She’s just a statistic. And I’m a wild datum.” “Oh, well, I’ve got two hundred and forty-seven dollars toward that million. ‘Bye!” Meade’s prize was the usual Rosicrucian come-on, elaborately printed, and including a photograph (retouched, he was sure) of the much disputed line on the corridor wall which was alleged to prophesy, by its various discontinuities, the entire future. This one had an unusual time scale but the major events were all marked on it, the fall of Rome, the Norman Invasion, the Discovery of America, Napoleon, the World Wars. What made it interesting was that it suddenly stopped, now. “What about it. Potty?” “I guess the stonecutter got tired. Or got fired. Or they got a new head priest with new ideas.” He tucked it into his desk. “Thanks. I’ll think about how to list it.” But he got it out again, applied dividers and a magnifying glass. “It says here,” he announced, “that the end comes late in August, unless that’s a fly speck.” “Morning or afternoon? I have to know how to dress.” “Shoes will be worn. All God’s chilluns got shoes.” He put it away. She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Potty, isn’t it about time to jump?” “Huh? Girl, don’t let that thing affect you! That’s ‘silly season’ stuff.” “Yes. But take a look at your chart.” Nevertheless he took the next afternoon off, spent it in the reference room of the main library, confirmed his opinion of soothsayers. Nostradamus was pretentiously silly, Mother Shippey was worse. In any of them you could find what you looked for. He did find one item in Nostradamus that he liked: “The Oriental shall come forth from his seat, he shall pass through the sky, through the waters and the snow, and he shall strike each one with his weapon.” That sounded like what the Department of Defense expected the commies to try to do to the Western Allies. But it was also a description of every invasion that had come out of the “heartland” in the memory of mankind. Nuts! When he got home he found himself taking down his father’s Bible and turning to Revelations. He could not find anything that he could understand but he got fascinated by the recurring use of precise numbers. Presently he thumbed through the Book at random; his eye lit on: “Boast not thyself of tomorrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.” He put the Book away, feeling humbled but not cheered. The rains started the next morning. The Master Plumbers elected Miss Star Morning “Miss Sanitary Engineering” on the same day that the morticians designated her as “The Body I would Like Best to Prepare,” and her option was dropped by Fragrant Features. Congress voted one dollar thirty seven cents to compensate Thomas Jefferson Meeks for losses incurred while an emergency postman for the Christmas rush of 1936, approved the appointment of five lieutenant generals and one ambassador and adjourned in eight minutes. The fire extinguishers in a Midwest orphanage turned out to be filled with air. The chancellor of the leading football institution sponsored a fund to send peace messages and vitamins to the Politburo. The stock market slumped nineteen points and the tickers ran two hours late. Wichita, Kansas, remained flooded while Phoenix, Arizona, cut off drinking water to areas outside city limits. And Potiphar Breen found that he had left his raincoat at Meade Barstow’s rooming house. He phoned her landlady, but Missus Megeath turned him over to Meade. “What are you doing home on a Friday?” he demanded. “The theater manager laid me off. Now you’ll have to marry me.” “You can’t afford me. Meade, seriously, baby, what happened?” “I was ready to leave the dump anyway. For the last six weeks the popcorn machine has been carrying the place. Today I sat through I Was A Teen-Age Beatnik twice. Nothing to do.” “I’ll be along.” “Eleven minutes?” “It’s raining. Twenty, with luck.” It was more nearly sixty. Santa Monica Boulevard was a navigable stream; Sunset Boulevard was a subway jam. When he tried to ford the streams leading to Missus Megeath’s house, he found that changing tires with the wheel wedged against a storm drain presented problems. “Potty! You look like a drowned rat.” “I’ll live,” But presently he found himself wrapped in a blanket robe belonging to the late Mister Megeath and sipping hot cocoa while Missus Megeath dried his clothing in the kitchen. “Meade, I’m ‘at liberty,’ too.” “Hub? You quit your job?” “Not exactly. Old Man Wiley and I have been having differences of opinion about my answers for months, too much ‘Jackpot factor’ in the figures I give him to turn over to clients. Not that I call it that, but he has felt that I was unduly pessimistic.” “But you were right!” “Since when has being right endeared a man to his boss? But that wasn’t why he fired me; that was just the excuse. He wants a man willing to back up the Know-Nothing program with scientific double-talk. And I wouldn’t join.” He went to the window. “It’s raining harder.” “But they haven’t got any program.” “I know that.” “Potty, you should have joined. It doesn’t mean anything, I joined three months ago.” “The hell you did!” She shrugged. “You pay your dollar and you turn up for two meetings and they leave you alone. It kept my job for another three months. What of it?” “Uh, well, I’m sorry you did it; that’s all. Forget it. Meade, the water is over the curbs out there.” “You had better stay here overnight.” “Hum, I don’t like to leave ‘Entropy’ parked out in this stuff all night. Meade?” “Yes, Potty?” “We’re both out of jobs. How would you like to duck north into the Mojave and find a dry spot?” “I’d love it. But look, Potty, is this a proposal, or just a proposition?” “Don’t pull that ‘either-or’ stuff on me. It’s just a suggestion for a vacation. Do you want to take a chaperone?” “No.” “Then pack a bag.” “Right away. But look, Potiphar, pack a bag how? Are you trying to tell me it’s time to jump?” He faced her, then looked back at the window. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “but this rain might go on quite a while. Don’t take anything you don’t have to have, but don’t leave anything behind you can’t get along without.” He repossessed his clothing from Missus Megeath while Meade was upstairs, She came down dressed in slacks and carrying two large bags; under one arm was a battered and rakish Teddy bear. “This is Winnie.” “Winnie the Pooh?” “No, Winnie Churchill. When I feel bad he promises me ‘blood, toil, tears, and sweat’; then I feel better. You said to bring anything I couldn’t do without?” She looked at him anxiously. “Right.” He took the bags. Missus Megeath had seemed satisfied with his explanation that they were going to visit his (mythical) aunt in Bakersfield before looking for jobs; nevertheless she embarrassed him by kissing him good-by and telling him to “take care of my little girl.” Santa Monica Boulevard was blocked off from use. While stalled in traffic in Beverly Hills he fiddled with the car radio, getting squawks and crackling noises, then finally one station nearby: “, in effect,” a harsh, high, staccato voice was saying, “the Kremlin has given us till sundown to get out of town. This is your New York Reporter, who thinks that in days like these every American must personally keep his powder dry. And now for a word from.” Breen switched it off and glanced at her face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They’ve been talking that way for years,” “You think they are bluffing?” “I didn’t say that. I said, ‘don’t worry.’ “ But his own packing, with her help, was clearly on a “Survival Kit” basis, canned goods, all his warm clothing, a sporting rifle he had not fired in over two years, a first-aid kit and the contents of his medicine chest. He dumped the stuff from his desk into a carton, shoved it into the back seat along with cans and books and coats and covered the plunder with all the blankets in the house. They went back up the rickety stairs for a last check. “Potty, where’s your chart?” “Rolled up on the back seat shelf. I guess that’s all, hey, wait a minute!” He went to a shelf over his desk and began taking down small, sober-looking magazines. “I dern near left behind my file of The Western Astronomer and of the Proceedings of the Variable Star Association.” “Why take them?” “Huh? I must be nearly a year behind on both of them. Now maybe I’ll have time to read.” “Hum, Potty, watching you read professional journals is not my notion of a vacation.” “Quiet, woman! You took Winnie; I take these.” She shut up and helped him. He cast a longing eye at his electric calculator but decided it was too much like the White Knight’s mouse trap. He could get by with his slide rule. As the car splashed out into the street she said, “Potty, how are you fixed for cash?” “Huh? Okay, I guess.” “I mean, leaving while the banks are closed and everything.” She held up her purse. “Here’s my bank. It isn’t much, but we can use it.” He smiled and patted her knee. “Stout fellow! I’m sitting on my bank; I started turning everything to cash about the first of the year.” “Oh. I closed out my bank account right after we met.” “You did? You must have taken my maunderings seriously.” “I always take you seriously.” Mint Canyon was a five-mile-an-hour nightmare, with visibility limited to the tail lights of the truck ahead. When they stopped for coffee at Halfway, they confirmed what seemed evident: Cajon Pass was closed and long-haul traffic for Route 66 was being detoured through the secondary pass. At long, long last they reached the Victorville cut-off and lost some of the traffic, a good thing, as the windshield wiper on his side had quit working and they were driving by the committee system. Just short of Lancaster she said suddenly, “Potty, is this buggy equipped with a snorkel?” “Nope.” “Then we had better stop. But I see a light off the road.” The light was an auto court. Meade settled the matter of economy versus convention by signing the book herself; they were placed in one cabin. He saw that it had twin beds and let the matter ride. Meade went to bed with her Teddy bear without even asking to be kissed goodnight. It was already gray, wet dawn. They got up in the late afternoon and decided to stay over one more night, then push north toward Bakersfield. A high pressure area was alleged to be moving south, crowding the warm, wet mass that smothered Southern California. They wanted to get into it. Breen had the wiper repaired and bought two new tires to replace his ruined spare, added some camping items to his cargo, and bought for Meade a .32 automatic, a lady’s social-purposes gun; he gave it to her somewhat sheepishly. “What’s this for?” “Well, you’re carrying quite a bit of cash.” “Oh. I thought maybe I was to use it to fight you off.” “Now, Meade.” “Never mind. Thanks, Potty.” They had finished supper and were packing the car with their afternoon’s purchases when the quake struck. Five inches of rain in twenty-four hours, more than three billion tons of mass suddenly loaded on a fault already overstrained, all cut loose in one subsonic, stomach-twisting rumble. Meade sat down on the wet ground very suddenly; Breen stayed upright by dancing like a logroller. When the ground quieted down somewhat, thirty seconds later, he helped her up. “You all right?” “My slacks are soaked.” She added pettishly, “But, Potty, it never quakes in wet weather. Never.” “It did this time.” “But.” “Keep quiet, can’t you?” He opened the car door and switched on the radio, waited impatiently for it to warm up. Shortly he was searching the entire dial. “Not a confounded Los Angeles station on the air!” “Maybe the shock busted one of your tubes?” “Pipe down.” He passed a squeal and dialed back to it: “Your Sunshine Station in Riverside, California. Keep tuned to this station for the latest developments. It is as of now impossible to tell the size of the disaster. The Colorado River aqueduct is broken; nothing is known of the extent of the damage nor how long it will take to repair it. So far as we know the Owens River Valley aqueduct may be intact, but all persons in the Los Angeles area are advised to conserve water. My personal advice is to stick your washtubs out into this rain; it can’t last forever. If we had time, we’d play Cool Water, just to give you the idea. I now read from the standard disaster instructions, quote: ‘Boil all water. Remain quietly in your homes and do not panic. Stay off the highways. Cooperate with the police and render, ’ Joe! Joe! Catch that phone! ‘, render aid where necessary. Do not use the telephone except for, ’ Flash! An unconfirmed report from Long Beach states that the Wilmington and San Pedro waterfront is under five feet of water. I re- peat, this is unconfirmed. Here’s a message from the commanding general, March Field: ‘official, all military personnel will report.” Breen switched it off. “Get in the car.” “Where are we going?” “North.” “We’ve paid for the cabin. Should we.” “Get in!” He stopped in the town, managed to buy six five-gallon-tins and a jeep tank. He filled them with gasoline and packed them with blankets in the back seat, topping off the mess with a dozen cans of oil. Then they were rolling. “What are we doing, Potiphar?” “I want to get west on the valley highway.” “Any particular place west?” “I think so. We’ll see. You work the radio, but keep an eye on the road, too. That gas back there makes me nervous.” Through the town of Mojave and northwest on 466 into the Tehachapi Mountains, Reception was poor in the pass but what Meade could pick up confirmed the first impression, worse than the quake of ‘06, worse than San Francisco, Managua, and Long Beach taken together. When they got down out of the mountains it was clearing locally; a few stars appeared. Breen swung left off the highway and ducked south of Bakersfield by the county road, reached the Route 99 superhighway just south of Greenfield. It was, as he had feared, already jammed with refugees; he was forced to go along with the flow for a couple of miles before he could cut west at Greenfield to- ward Taft. They stopped on the western outskirts of the town and ate at an all-night truckers’ joint. They were about to climb back into the car when there was suddenly “sunrise” due south. The rosy light swelled almost instantaneously, filled the sky, and died; where it had been a red and purple pillar of cloud was mounting, mountings spreading to a mushroom top. Breen stared at it, glanced at his watch, then said harshly, “Get in the car.” “Potty, that was, that was.” “That was, that used to be, Los Angeles. Get in the car!” He simply drove for several minutes. Meade seemed to be in a state of shock, unable to speak. When the sound reached them he again glanced at his watch. “Six minutes and “nineteen seconds. That’s about right.” “Potty, we should have brought Missus Megeath.” “How was I to know?” he said angrily. “Anyhow, you can’t transplant an old tree. If she got it, she never knew it.” “Oh, I hope so!” “Forget it; straighten out and fly right. We’re going to have all we can do to take care of ourselves. Take the flashlight and check the map. I want to turn north at Taft and over toward the coast.” “Yes, Potiphar.” “And try the radio.” She quieted down and did as she was told. The radio gave nothing, not even the Riverside station; the whole broadcast range was covered by a curious static, like rain on a window. He slowed down as they approached Taft, let her spot the turn north onto the state road, and turned into it. Almost at once a figure jumped out into the road in front of them, waved his arms violently. Breen tromped on the brake. The man came up on the left side of the car, rapped on the window; Breen ran the glass down. Then he stared stupidly at the gun in the man’s left hand. “Out of the car,” the stranger said sharply. “I’ve got to have it.” He reached inside with his right hand, groped for the door lever. Meade reached across Breen, stuck her little lady’s gun in the man’s face, pulled the trigger. Breen could feel the flash on his own face, never noticed the report. The man looked puzzled, with a neat, not-yet-bloody hole in his upper lip, then slowly sagged away from the car. “Drive on!” Meade said in a high voice. Breen caught his breath. “Good girl.” “Drive on! Get rolling!” They followed the state road through Los Padres National Forest, stopping once to fill the tank from their cans. They turned off onto a dirt road. Meade kept trying the radio, got San Francisco once but it was too jammed with static to read. Then she got Salt Lake City, faint but clear: “, since there are no reports of anything passing our radar screen the Kansas City bomb must be assumed to have been planted rather than delivered. This is a tentative theory but.” They passed into a deep cut and lost the rest. When the squawk box again came to life it was a new voice: “Conelrad,” said a crisp voice, “coming to you over the combined networks. The rumor that Los Angeles has been hit by an atom bomb is totally unfounded. It is true that the western metropolis has suffered a severe earthquake shock but that is all. Government officials and the Red Cross are on the spot to care for the victims, but, and I repeat, there has been no atomic bombing. So relax and stay in your homes. Such wild rumors can damage the United States quite as much as enemy’s bombs. Stay off the highways and listen for.” Breen snapped it off. “Somebody,” he said bitterly, “has again decided that ‘Mama knows best.’ They won’t tell us any bad news.” “Potiphar,” Meade said sharply, “that was an atom bomb, wasn’t it?” “It was. And now we don’t know whether it was just Los Angeles, and Kansas City, or all the big cities in the country. All we know is that they are lying to us.” “Maybe I can get another station?” “The hell with it.” He concentrated on driving. The road was very bad. As it began to get light she said, “Potty, do you know where we’re going? Are we just keeping out of cities?” “I think I do. If I’m not lost.” He stared around them. “Nope, it’s all right. See that hill up forward with the triple gendarmes on its profile?” “Gendarmes?” “Big rock pillars. That’s a sure landmark. I’m looking for a private road now. It leads to a hunting lodge belonging to two of my friends, an old ranch house actually, but as a ranch it didn’t pay.” “Oh. They won’t mind us using it?” He shrugged. “If they show up, we’ll ask them. If they show up. They lived in Los Angeles, Meade.” “Oh. Yes, I guess so.” The private road had once been a poor grade of wagon trail; now it was almost impassable. But they finally topped a hogback from which they could see almost to the Pacific, then dropped down into a sheltered bowl where the cabin was. “All out, girl. End of the line.” Meade sighed. “It looks heavenly.” “Think you can rustle breakfast while I unload? There’s probably wood in the shed. Or can you manage a wood range?” “Just try me.” Two hours later Breen was standing on the hogback, smoking a cigarette, and staring off down to the west. He wondered if that was a mushroom cloud up San Francisco way? Probably his imagination, he decided, in view of the distance. Certainly there was nothing to be seen to the south. Meade came out of the cabin. “Potty!” “Up here.” She joined him, took his hand, and smiled, then snitched his cigarette and took a deep drag. She expelled it and said, “I know it’s sinful of me, but I feel more peaceful than I have in months and months.” “I know.” “Did you see the canned goods in that pantry? We could pull through a hard winter here.” “We might have to.” “I suppose. I wish we had a cow.” “What would you do with a cow?” “I used to milk four cows before I caught the school bus, every morning. I can butcher a hog, too.” “I’ll try to find one.” “You do and I’II manage to smoke it.” She yawned. “I’m suddenly terribly sleepy.” “So am I. And small wonder.” “Let’s go to bed.” “Uh, yes. Meade?” “Yes, Potty?” “We may be here quite a while. You know that, don’t you?” “Yes, Potty.” “In fact it might be smart to stay put until those curves all start turning up again. They will, you know.” “Yes. I had figured that out.” He hesitated, then went on, “Meade, will you marry me?” “Yes.” She moved up to him. After a time he pushed her gently away and said, “My dear, my very dear, uh, we could drive down and find a minister in some little town?” She looked at him steadily. “That wouldn’t be very bright, would it? I mean, nobody knows we’re here and that’s the way we want it. And besides, your car might not make it back up that road.” “No, it wouldn’t be very bright. But I want to do the right thing.” “It’s all right. Potty. It’s all right.” “Well, then, kneel down here with me. Well say them together.” “Yes, Potiphar.” She knelt and he took her hand. He closed his eyes and prayed wordlessly. When he opened them he said, “What’s the matter?” “Uh, the gravel hurts my knees.” “Well stand up, then.” “No. Look, Potty, why don’t we just go in the house and say them there?” “Hub? Hells bells, woman, we might forget to say them entirely. Now repeat after me: I, Potiphar, take thee, Meade.” “Yes, Potiphar. I, Meade, take thee, Potiphar.” Chapter Three. “OFFICIAL: STATIONS WITHIN RANGE RELAY TWICE. EXECUTIVE BULLETIN NUMBER NINE, ROAD LAWS PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED HAVE BEEN IGNORED IN MANY INSTANCES. PATBOLS ARE ORDERED TO SHOOT WITHOUT WARNING AND PROVOST MARSHALS ABE DIBECTED TO USE DEATH PENALTY FOR UNAUTHORIZED POSSESSION OF GASOLINE. B.W. AND RADIATION QUARANTINE REGULATIONS PREVIOUSLY ISSUED WILL BE RIGIDLY ENFORCED. LONG LIVE THE UNITED STATES! HARLEY J. NEAL, LIEUTENANT GENERAL, ACTING CHIEF OF GOVERNMENT. ALL STATIONS RELAY TWICE.” “THIS IS THE FREE RADIO AMERICA RELAY NETWOBK. PASS THIS ALONG, BOYS! GOVERNOR BRANDLEY WAS SWORN IN TODAY AS PRESIDENT BY ACTING CHIEF JUSTICE ROBERTS UNDER THE RULE-OF-SUCCESSION. THE PRESIDENT NAMED THOMAS DEWEY AS SECRETARY OF STATE AND PAUL DOUGLAS AS SECRETARY OF DEFENSE. HIS SECOND OFFICIAL ACT WAS TO STRIP THE RENEGADE NEAL OF RANK AND TO DIRECT HIS ARREST BY ANY CITIZEN OR OFFICIAL. MORE LATER. PASS THE WORD ALONG. “HELLO, CQ, CQ, CQ. THIS IS W5KMR, FREEPORT, QRR, QRR! ANYBODY READ ME? ANYBODY? WE’RE DYING LIKE FLIES DOWN HERE. WHAT’S HAPPENED? STARTS WITH FEVER AND A BURNING THIRST BUT YOU CAN’T SWALLOW. WE NEED HELP. ANYBODY BEAD ME? HELLO, CQ 75, CQ 75 THIS IS W5 KILO METRO ROMEO CALLING QRR AND CQ 75. BY FOR SOMEBODY. ANYBODY!!!” “THIS IS THE LORD’S TIME, SPONSORED BY SWAN’S ELIXIR, THE TONIC THAT MAKES WAITING FOR THE KINGDOM OF GOD WORTHWHILE. YOU ARE ABOUT TO HEAR A MESSAGE OF CHEER FROM JUDGE BROOMFIELD, ANOINTED VICAR OF THE KINGDOM ON EARTH. BUT FIRST A BULLETIN: SEND YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS TO ‘MESSIAH,’ CLINT, TEXAS. DON’T TRY TO MAIL THEM: SEND THEM BY A KINGDOM MESSENGER OR BY SOME PILGRIM JOURNEYING THIS WAY. AND NOW THE TABERNACLE CHOIR FOLLOWED BY THE VOICE OF THE VICAR ON EARTH.” “THE FIRST SYMPTOM IS LITTLE RED SPOTS IN THE ARMPITS. THEY ITCH. PUT ‘EM TO BED AT ONCE AND KEEP ‘EM COVERED UP WARM. THEN GO SCRUB YOURSELF AND WEAR A MASK: WE DON’T KNOW YET HOW YOU CATCH IT. PASS IT ALONG, ED.” “NO NEW LANDINGS REPORTED ANYWHERE ON THIS CONTINENT. THE PARATROOPERS WHO ESCAPED THE ORIGINAL SLAUGHTER ARE THOUGHT TO BE HIDING OUT IN THE POCONOS. SHOOT, BUT BE CAREFUL; IT MIGHT BE AUNT TESSIE. OFF AND CLEAR, UNTIL NOON TOMORROW.” The curves were turning up again. There was no longer doubt in Breen’s mind about that. It might not even be necessary to stay up here in the Sierra Madres through the winter, though he rather thought they would. He had picked their spot to keep them west of the fallout; it would be silly to be mowed down by the tail of a dying epidemic, or be shot by a nervous vigilante, when a few months’ wait would take care of everything. Besides, lie had chopped all that firewood. He looked at his calloused hands, he had done all that work and, by George, he was going to enjoy the benefits! He was headed out to the hogback to wait for sunset and do an hour’s reading; he glanced at his car as he passed it, thinking that he would like to try the radio. He suppressed the yen; two thirds of his reserve gasoline was gone already just from keeping the battery charged for the radio, and here it was only December. He really ought to cut it down to twice a week. But it meant a lot to catch the noon bulletin of Free America and then twiddle the dial a few minutes to see what else he could pick up. But for the past three days Free America had not been on the air, solar static maybe, or perhaps just a power failure. But that rumor that President Brandley had been assassinated, while it hadn’t come from the Free radio, and it hadn’t been denied by them, either, which was a good sign. Still, it worried him. And that other story that lost Atlantis had pushed up during the quake period and that the Azores were now a little continent, almost certainly a hang-over of the “silly season” but it would be nice to hear a follow-up. Rather sheepishly he let

Rahan. Episode Forty. The last man. When a crash of broken branches sounded behind him, the son of Crao. Did not even have time to reach for his ivory knife. The powerful arm of the gorilla surrounded him, taking his breath away. He felt himself pressed against the hairy chest by the second arm. The great “Four Hands” wants to suffocate Rahan. He, he. He tried to loosen this vice of muscles, but in vain! Everything suddenly became blurry around him and he lost consciousness. Page Two: When he regained his senses, he was lying on a fork of an enormous tree. The gorilla watched him with his cruel little eyes. Rahan has not joined the territory of shadows. Why did the “Four Hands” spare him? But maybe he thinks Rahan is dead?! The son of Crao remained motionless, feigning death. He held his knife against his hip, but he knew that this weapon was useless to him. A fight on this tree would have been fatal to him. He kept his eyes half closed. But what is he doing? Rahan's hair seems to fascinate him! The gorilla had approached. His fingers felt the long blonde hair. He grunted, as if to express his discontent! Page Three: The disturbing hairy hand lingered for a moment on the necklace of claws. And Rahan thought it was going to close on his throat. But it did not happen. The gorilla leapt onto another branch and disappeared, growling into the thick foliage. It is strange, thought Rahan! The "Four Hands" reacts as if he were deceived by the enemy! The danger appeared to be averted, and so the son of Crao let himself slide along the vines. He blamed himself, the experienced hunter, for having allowed himself to be surprised in this way. But perhaps it is better this way. The “Four Hands” is a formidable adversary, and Rahan might have succumbed in a fight. But. But. Would Rahan become cowardly!? Disquieted, he felt a claw on his necklace. The one that symbolized “Courage”. Page Four: Then his fingers brushed against that of "Wisdom", and he felt reassured. No! Rahan acted wisely! What's the point of fighting when fighting is not essential! He had been wandering since dawn in this unknown territory, and the fire of thirst was eating away at him. So he joyfully rushed towards a spring that he had glimpsed. It was perhaps because he immersed his head entirely in the clear, cool water that he did not hear the most curious, the most unusual of the clans, spreading out behind him! Stand “Man from elsewhere!” The water from our spring does not flow to refresh the enemy's throat! After a brief moment of astonishment, the son of Crao smiled. So! Very harsh words in the mouth of a little man! Page Five: The oldest of the children who looked at him must not have seen the “season-of-green-leaves” more than three times the fingers of the hand. If you refuse to flee, we will force you to! These children were not armed, but there were many of them. They rushed forward, howling like a pack of young wolves! The son of Crao was assailed by the wave. Arms encircled his legs, hands of others clung to his wrists, others to his hair, and others to his neck. He almost disappeared under the multitude! I am Rahan! And Rahan means no harm to “Those-who-walk-upright”, especially when they are your age! The pack moved away, and Rahan was only held on the ground by a few adolescents, although he could certainly have freed himself. But his curiosity was too strong! Page Six: Rahan surrenders to the little men! We are no longer “Little men!” We are the “Clan of the Abyss”. We are the masters of this entire territory! The child spoke with the pride of a horde leader! More intrigued than worried, the son of Crao allowed himself to be dragged away. They don't even think of disarming Rahan! They are only too happy to bring a captive back to their fathers! He could not have known that a man, hidden in the foliage, was observing every move of the young clan. A village appeared, which seemed deserted. The huts stood near a chasm. In the distance was a wide river. The men probably have not returned from hunting! But where are their women? Page Seven: Rahan's surprise grew even more when groups of people burst out of the huts. Little girls! They cheered the return of their young companions. Where are your fathers? And your mothers? Where are the old ones? The looks became even more hostile. If Rahan speaks the same language as "the man of the forest", we will throw him into the abyss! The man from the forest? Quiet Rahan! You should be the one answering the clan's questions! Such is the order of Trah! This resolute adolescent seemed to be the leader of this horde of children. A moment later they gathered in a circle around the son of Crao. And questions came from all sides. Where do you come from? Where were you going? Where do yours hide? Page Eight: The youngest approached the captive and fearfully felt his muscular legs. They are curious like all young humans! And Rahan does not have much to fear from them! But to know their secret, he must earn their respect and trust! Rahan will tell you everything about him. But, first, he wants to greet your chief! Oh! Grasping Trah, the son of Crao held him high above the ground. Rahan greets the chasm clan, and its great leader Trah! This demonstration of force was interrupted by screams of fear Trah! Trah! Kocik has fallen into the big flow! The great flow carries him away! Page Nine: Trah! Trah! Don't let me be devoured by the great flood! Forgetting the captive, the horde of children rushed towards the river, in whose eddies one of their own was struggling. The clan of the abyss remained frozen on the shore. So you do not know "Crawling on water"!? Rahan will bring back Kocik!? The man does not have any common sense! How can he dare to do such a thing? A hundred statues watched Rahan dive, and swim towards Kocik, who was being dragged along by a current. The son of the fierce ages disappeared under the water, following the child who was sinking! Rahan must save him! He must! He must! A clamor arose when he appeared on the surface, supporting Kocik! Rahan is a human fish! The legged snake will devour them both! Page Ten: If Rahan were alone, he would not fear you, “Skin-of-Wood”! Rahan had seen the large crocodile which emerged from the reeds and swam towards him. Many times he had triumphed over similar saurians. But this time, the gesticulating child made the confrontation impossible! Should he abandon Kocik to save himself? The thought made him ashamed. Nothing is lost, Kocik! But you have to trust Rahan! You have to believe Rahan! Do not move! Look at the sky and do not move! The great flood will not eat you! Rahan swears! From the shore, the young clan of the chasm witnessed the miracle. Kocik, stiff as a log, floated on the surface! And now, “Skin-of-Wood”, prepare to die! Page Eleven: The son of Crao knew about the stupidity of saurians. He dove at the very moment when the fearsome jaws opened. And the ivory knife disemboweled the monster, whose blood reddened the waters for an instant. Ra-ha-ha! When he returned to the surface the current carried the still motionless Kocik. Very good Kocik! Very Good! You will soon know how to “Crawl on water” as well as Rahan! From a distance, the man en-ambush in the foliage saw Rahan bringing the child back to the bank. He then observed the village. Where there were a few kids left, the youngest of the clan. Tarouk must take advantage of this opportunity! Page Twelve: However. Rahan saved Kocik from the “Great Flood” and kill the "Legged Snake"! Is Rahan a god? No. Rahan is just a simple hunter. Screams suddenly rose from the village. Tarouk! Let go had to wait until we moved away to attack our younger brothers! Indeed, a moment later. Tarouk has come! He kidnapped Timaa! He ran away that way! Onto the hunt brothers! I hope that this time we can Kill Tarouk!! The children armed themselves with stones and sticks. One moment Trah. Who is this Tarouk? It is time to tell Rahan the truth. Tarouk is the man-of-the-forest we were telling you about! For moons and moons, there has been a war between Tarouk and the Clan of the Abyss! We often track him down, but each time he escapes us! Page Thirteen: Tarouk sometimes captures one of ours and keeps him prisoner for a whole day, to say strange things to him. But why this war between Tarouk and you? I do not know! It has always been like this and it will be like this until we have killed Tarouk! The son of the wild ages was very intrigued. Rahan knows how to be quieter than a snake. He will find Tarouk and bring back Timma to you, like he brought you Kocik! In fact, Rahan very quickly found the traces of the kidnapper. Crawling like a feline among the bushes, he heard a voice. The man of the forest! When Tarouk, crouching near his young captive, sensed the danger it was too late. Rahan was jumping on him! Ra-ha-ha! Page Fourteen: “Tarouk-the-coward” prefers to kidnap children rather than fight a man! Tarouk in fact did not resist and allowed himself to be pinned to the ground! I do not want any harm to these children! Let me go and I will explain. A moment later, Crao's son would hear the strangest of stories. I am Tarouk The last man of the abyss clan! The season of green leaves has come back many times. Since that cursed day when the great flood came out of its lair to devour our village! It was terrible! To save our children, we hoisted them onto the rock overlooking the chasm. They were saved, but the horde was entirely decimated by the great flood! Page Fifteen: I was able to grab onto a tree and was carried away by the flood, which threw me into a chasm of water! My head must have hit a rock! Because when I came back from the territory of shadows I didn't remember anything! Not the horde! Nor from the anger of the great flood! I was Tarouk, the only survivor of the horde! From then on I lived like a beast in the forest. Many seasons passed before my memory came back to me. When I remembered, I only had one desire left. To find my village, and see if our children had survived, and to help them. I finally found the village, the children were safe and they had grown up. I was happy. I hoped to make them brave and loyal hunters, like their fathers were. Page Sixteen: Alas! The children had reconstituted the clan and they chased me away! I believe that the oldest remember the anger of the great flood. And they think that that day their parents abandoned them! This is why they hate all adults! This is why they are hunting me. While I do everything to help them! They sometimes discover a dead animal in the forest. They don't know that it was Tarouk who killed it so that they would not go hungry! And I often have to face the "Four-Hands", who gets too close to the village! The son of Crao listened to the man, the last man, and was heavy with emotion. I sometimes kidnap one of them to explain the truth to him. Alas! All my efforts are in vain! Tarouk had freed young Timaa who ran away as fast as his legs allowed! Page Seventeen: This little one also thinks I am lying! And it will always be like this! Kids will always hate me! No! Rahan has earned their trust! He will explain everything to them and they will believe him! Come on brother! Come! As he followed Tarouk, the son of fierce ages realized that the man looked like him. Same size. Same blonde hair. Almost identical necklace, if it had not been for the shells. He suddenly understood why the gorilla had attacked him, then spared him. By attacking Rahan the “Four Hands” believed he was taking revenge on Tarouk! Shouts of fear came to them as they came into sight of the village. All the children had taken refuge in the huts and, near the abyss, the gorilla was violently hammering his chest. Never had a “Four-Hands” dared to risk getting so close! Here is Tarouk's opportunity to prove to the children that he is part of their clan! Page Eighteen: No Tarouk! The children need you! You are the one who knows the origins of their clan! It is you who can make men out of them! You have to stay alive for this! Rahan no longer has a clan or a horde! It is up to him to face the "Four Hands"! The son of Crao was already rushing forward, knife in hand. It was, on the edge of the abyss, a terrifying fight. The children, coming out of the huts, cheered every feint of Rahan. They no longer even cared about Tarouk, who was waiting for the opportunity to intervene. The ivory blade suddenly plunged into the hairy chest. But the Gorilla, struck dead, grabbed Rahan's wrist before toppling into. The void. And Rahan, the son of fierce ages, was in turn dragged towards the abyss! Page Nineteen: Rahan is lost! He will join the "Territory-of-shadows" with you "Four-Hands"! The Gorilla, tense in agony, did not let go of his grip! Rahan felt the ground slip beneath him. He saw the bottomless pit into which he would be dragged. Adieu Brothers! And that was when two firm human hands closed around his ankles! Hands that held onto his life! Courage brother! If you have to die, we die together! But it was Tarouk who came stumbling to his aid. And the weight of the Gorilla was such that it dragged down the two men, who nothing could save! Trah, the young leader, had turned pale. Rahan sacrificed himself for the clan! And Tarouk sacrifices himself for Rahan! The clan must save the two! Page Twenty: The multitude of children rushed forward and grabbed the legs of the one they had always hated. And the chain became strong and beautiful. Rahan thought his arm was going to be torn off. But the gorilla finally let go. And as he spun in the void, Rahan felt himself being pulled upwards. He saw Tarouk smiling at him fraternally. The children, still out of breath, observed the two men with admiration and respect. The "War" is over between you and the man-of-the-forest! You will remain united as we were to save Rahan! Rahan will teach you many things. But first of all, he will tell you the story of Tarouk-the-Brave, who never abandoned the clan, which is also his! Before the attentive circle, the son of Crao began the story of the last man of the clan of the abyss. He knew he would be believed. He knew that tomorrow Tarouk would make his children Brave and loyal hunters. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

https://readcomiconline.li/Comic/Batman-1940

Puke on a Plate, Or Puke on a Book? I don't know where to puke. Edition 1.0 © 2020 World Economic Forum All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system. World Economic Forum 91, 93 route de la Capite CH, 1223 Cologny/Geneva Switzerland Tel.: +41 (0)22 869 1212 Fax +41 (0)22 786 2744 mail: contact@weforum.org www.weforum.org ISBN 978, 2, 940631, 11, 7 Preface: About Covid, 19: The Great Reset. Since it made its entry on the world stage, COVID, 19 has dramatically torn up the existing script of how to govern countries, live with others and take part in the global economy. Written by World Economic Forum Founder Klaus Schwab and Monthly Barometer author Thierry Malleret, COVID, 19: The Great Reset considers its far, reaching and dramatic implications on tomorrow’s world. The book’s main objective is to help understand what’s coming in a multitude of domains. Published in July 2020, in the midst of the crisis and when further waves of infection may still arise, it is a hybrid between a contemporary essay and an academic snapshot of a crucial moment in history. It includes theory and practical examples but is chiefly explanatory, containing many conjectures and ideas about what the post, pandemic world might, and perhaps should, look like. The book has three main chapters, offering a panoramic overview of the future landscape. The first assesses what the impact of the pandemic will be on five key macro categories: the economic, societal, geopolitical, environmental and technological factors. The second considers the effects in micro terms, on specific industries and companies. The third hypothesizes about the nature of the possible consequences at the individual level. In early July 2020, we are at a crossroads, the authors of COVID 19: The Great Reset argue. One path will take us to a better world: more inclusive, more equitable and more respectful of Mother Nature. The other will take us to a world that resembles the one we just left behind, but worse and constantly dogged by nasty surprises. We must therefore get it right. The looming challenges could be more consequential than we have until now chosen to imagine, but our capacity to reset could also be greater than we had previously dared to hope. About the authors. Professor Klaus Schwab Born 1938, Ravensburg, Germany, is the Founder and Executive Chairman of the World Economic Forum. In 1971, he published Modern Enterprise Management in Mechanical Engineering. He argues in that book that a company must serve not only shareholders but all stakeholders to achieve long, term growth and prosperity. To promote the stakeholder concept, he founded the World Economic Forum the same year. Professor Schwab holds doctorates in Economics, University of Fribourg, and in Engineering, Swiss Federal Institute of Technology, and obtained a master’s degree in Public Administration (MPA) from the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University. In 1972, in addition to his leadership role at the Forum, he became a professor at the University of Geneva. He has since received numerous international and national honours, including 17 honorary doctorates. His latest books are The Fourth Industrial Revolution (2016), a worldwide bestseller translated into 30 languages, and Shaping the Future of the Fourth Industrial Revolution (2018). Thierry Malleret, Born 1961, Paris, France, is the Managing Partner of the Monthly Barometer, a succinct predictive analysis provided to private investors, global CEOs and opinion, and decision, makers. His professional experience includes founding the Global Risk Network at the World Economic Forum and heading its Programme team. Malleret was educated at the Sorbonne and the Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris, and at St Antony's College, Oxford. He holds master’s degrees in Economics and History, and a PhD in Economics. His career spans investment banking, think tanks, academia and government, with a three, year spell in the prime minister's office in Paris. He has written several business and academic books and has published four novels. He lives in Chamonix, France, with his wife Mary Anne. INTRODUCTION. The worldwide crisis triggered by the coronavirus pandemic has no parallel in modern history. We cannot be accused of hyperbole when we say it is plunging our world in its entirety and each of us individually into the most challenging times we’ve faced in generations. It is our defining moment, we will be dealing with its fallout for years, and many things will change forever. It is bringing economic disruption of monumental proportions, creating a dangerous and volatile period on multiple fronts, politically, socially, geopolitically, raising deep concerns about the environment and also extending the reach (pernicious or otherwise) of technology into our lives. No industry or business will be spared from the impact of these changes. Millions of companies risk disappearing and many industries face an uncertain future; a few will thrive. On an individual basis, for many, life as they’ve always known it is unravelling at alarming speed. But deep, existential crises also favour introspection and can harbour the potential for transformation. The fault lines of the world, most notably social divides, lack of fairness, absence of cooperation, failure of global governance and leadership, now lie exposed as never before, and people feel the time for reinvention has come. A new world will emerge, the contours of which are for us to both imagine and to draw. At the time of writing (June 2020), the pandemic continues to worsen globally. Many of us are pondering when things will return to normal. The short response is: never. Nothing will ever return to the “broken” sense of normalcy that prevailed prior to the crisis because the coronavirus pandemic marks a fundamental inflection point in our global trajectory. Some analysts call it a major bifurcation, others refer to a deep crisis of “biblical” proportions, but the essence remains the same: the world as we knew it in the early months of 2020 is no more, dissolved in the context of the pandemic. Radical changes of such consequence are coming that some pundits have referred to a “before coronavirus” (BC) and “after coronavirus” (AC) era. We will continue to be surprised by both the rapidity and unexpected nature of these changes, as they conflate with each other, they will provoke second, third, fourth, and more, order consequences, cascading effects and unforeseen outcomes. In so doing, they will shape a “new normal” radically different from the one we will be progressively leaving behind. Many of our beliefs and assumptions about what the world could or should look like will be shattered in the process. However, broad and radical pronouncements (like “everything will change”) and an all, or, nothing, black, and, white analysis should be deployed with great care. Of course, reality will be much more nuanced. By itself, the pandemic may not completely transform the world, but it is likely to accelerate many of the changes that were already taking place before it erupted, which will in turn set in motion other changes. The only certainty: the changes won’t be linear and sharp discontinuities will prevail. COVID, 19: The Great Reset is an attempt to identify and shed light on the changes ahead, and to make a modest contribution in terms of delineating what their more desirable and sustainable form might resemble. Let’s begin by putting things into perspective: human beings have been around for about 200,000 years, the oldest bacteria for billions of years and viruses for at least 300 million years. This means that, most likely, pandemics have always existed and been an integral part of human history since people started travelling around; over the past 2000 years they have been the rule, not the exception. Because of their inherently disruptive nature, epidemics throughout history have proven to be a force for lasting and often radical change: sparking riots, causing population clashes and military defeats, but also triggering innovations, redrawing national boundaries and often paving the way for revolutions. Outbreaks forced empires to change course, like the Byzantine Empire when struck by the Plague of Justinian in 541 to 542, and some even to disappear altogether, when Aztec and Inca emperors died with most of their subjects from European germs. Also, authoritative measures to attempt to contain them have always been part of the policy arsenal. Thus, there is nothing new about the confinement and lockdowns imposed upon much of the world to manage COVID, 19. They have been common practice for centuries. The earliest forms of confinement came with the quarantines instituted in an effort to contain the Black Death that between 1347 and 1351 killed about a third of all Europeans. Coming from the word quaranta (which means “forty” in Italian), the idea of confining people for 40 days originated without the authorities really understanding what they wanted to contain, but the measures were one of the first forms of “institutionalized public health” that helped legitimatize the “accretion of power” by the modern state. The period of 40 days has no medical foundation; it was chosen for symbolic and religious reasons: both the Old and New Testaments often refer to the number 40 in the context of purification, in particular the 40 days of Lent and the 40 days of flood in Genesis. The spread of infectious diseases has a unique ability to fuel fear, anxiety and mass hysteria. In so doing, as we have seen, it also challenges our social cohesion and collective capacity to manage a crisis. Epidemics are by nature divisive and traumatizing. What we are fighting against is invisible; our family, friends and neighbours may all become sources of infection; those everyday rituals that we cherish, like meeting a friend in a public place, may become a vehicle for transmission; and the authorities that try to keep us safe by enforcing confinement measures are often perceived as agents of oppression. Throughout history, the important and recurring pattern has been to search for scapegoats and place the blame firmly on the outsider. In medieval Europe, the Jews were almost always among the victims of the most notorious pogroms provoked by the plague. One tragic example illustrates this point: in 1349, two years after the Black Death had started to rove across the continent, in Strasbourg on Valentine’s day, Jews, who’d been accused of spreading the plague by polluting the wells of the city, were asked to convert. About 1,000 refused and were burned alive. During that same year, Jewish communities in other European cities were wiped out, forcing them to massively migrate to the eastern part of Europe (in Poland and Russia), permanently altering the demography of the continent in the process. What is true for European anti, Semitism also applies to the rise of the absolutist state, the gradual retreat of the church and many other historical events that can be attributed in no small measure to pandemics. The changes were so diverse and widespread that it led to “the end of an age of submission”, bringing feudalism and serfdom to an end and ushering in the era of Enlightenment. Put simply: “The Black Death may have been the unrecognized beginning of modern man.” If such profound social, political and economic changes could be provoked by the plague in the medieval world, could the COVID, 19 pandemic mark the onset of a similar turning point with long, lasting and dramatic consequences for our world today? Unlike certain past epidemics, COVID, 19 doesn’t pose a new existential threat. It will not result in unforeseen mass famines or major military defeats and regime changes. Whole populations will neither be exterminated nor displaced as a result of the pandemic. However, this does not equate to a reassuring analysis. In reality, the pandemic is dramatically exacerbating pre, existing dangers that we’ve failed to confront adequately for too long. It will also accelerate disturbing trends that have been building up over a prolonged period of time. To begin elaborating a meaningful response, we need a conceptual framework (or a simple mental map) to help us reflect on what’s coming and to guide us in making sense of it. Insights offered by history can be particularly helpful. This is why we so often search for a reassuring “mental anchor” that can serve as a benchmark when we are forced to ask ourselves tough questions about what will change and to what extent. In doing so, we look for precedents, with questions such as: Is the pandemic like the Spanish flu of 1918, estimated to have killed more than 50 million people worldwide in three successive waves? Could it look like the Great Depression that started in 1929? Is there any resemblance with the psychological shock inflicted by 9, 11? Are there similarities with what happened with SARS in 2003 and H1N1 in 2009, albeit on a different scale? Could it be like the great financial crisis of 2008, but much bigger? The correct, albeit unwelcome, answer to all of these is: no! None fits the reach and pattern of the human suffering and economic destruction caused by the current pandemic. The economic fallout in particular bears no resemblance to any crisis in modern history. As pointed out by many heads of state and government in the midst of the pandemic, we are at war, but with an enemy that is invisible, and of course metaphorically: “If what we are going through can indeed be called a war, it is certainly not a typical one. After all, today’s enemy is shared by all of humankind”. That said, World War Two could even so be one of the most relevant mental anchors in the effort to assess what’s coming next. World War Two was the quintessential transformational war, triggering not only fundamental changes to the global order and the global economy, but also entailing radical shifts in social attitudes and beliefs that eventually paved the way for radically new policies and social contract provisions, like women joining the workforce before becoming voters. There are obviously fundamental dissimilarities between a pandemic and a war, that we will consider in some detail in the following pages, but the magnitude of their transformative power is comparable. Both have the potential to be a transformative crisis of previously unimaginable proportions. However, we must beware of superficial analogies. Even in the worst, case horrendous scenario, COVID, 19 will kill far fewer people than the Great Plagues, including the Black Deaths, or World War Two did. Furthermore, today’s economy bears no resemblance to those of past centuries that relied on manual labour and farmland or heavy industry. In today’s highly interconnected and interdependent world, however, the impact of the pandemic will go well beyond the (already staggering) statistics relating “simply” to death, unemployment and bankruptcies. COVID, 19: The Great Reset is written and published in the midst of a crisis whose consequences will unfold over many years to come. Little wonder that we all feel somewhat bewildered, a sentiment so very understandable when an extreme shock strikes, bringing with it the disquieting certainty that its outcomes will be both unexpected and unusual. This strangeness is well captured by Albert Camus in his 1947 novel The Plague: “Yet all these changes were, in one sense, so fantastic and had been made so precipitately that it wasn’t easy to regard them as likely to have any permanence.” Now that the unthinkable is upon us, what will happen next, in the immediate aftermath of the pandemic and then in the foreseeable future? It is of course much too early to tell with any reasonable accuracy what COVID, 19 will entail in terms of “momentous” changes, but the objective of this book is to offer some coherent and conceptually sound guidelines about what might lie ahead, and to do so in the most comprehensive manner possible. Our aim is to help our readers grasp the multifaceted dimension of the changes that are coming. At the very least, as we will argue, the pandemic will accelerate systemic changes that were already apparent prior to the crisis: the partial retreat from globalization, the growing decoupling between the US and China, the acceleration of automation, concerns about heightened surveillance, the growing appeal of well, being policies, rising nationalism and the subsequent fear of immigration, the growing power of tech, the necessity for firms to have an even stronger online presence, among many others. But it could go beyond a mere acceleration by altering things that previously seemed unchangeable. It might thus provoke changes that would have seemed inconceivable before the pandemic struck, such as new forms of monetary policy like helicopter money (already a given), the reconsideration or recalibration of some of our social priorities and an augmented search for the common good as a policy objective, the notion of fairness acquiring political potency, radical welfare and taxation measures, and drastic geopolitical realignments. The broader point is this: the possibilities for change and the resulting new order are now unlimited and only bound by our imagination, for better or for worse. Societies could be poised to become either more egalitarian or more authoritarian, or geared towards more solidarity or more individualism, favouring the interests of the few or the many; economies, when they recover, could take the path of more inclusivity and be more attuned to the needs of our global commons, or they could return to functioning as they did before. You get the point: we should take advantage of this unprecedented opportunity to reimagine our world, in a bid to make it a better and more resilient one as it emerges on the other side of this crisis. We are conscious that attempting to cover the scope and breadth of all the issues addressed in this book is an enormous task that may not even be possible. The subject and all the uncertainties attached to it are gargantuan and could have filled the pages of a publication five times the size of this one. But our objective was to write a relatively concise and simple book to help the reader understand what’s coming in a multitude of domains. To interrupt the flow of the text as little as possible, the reference information appears at the end of the book and direct attributions have been minimized. Published in the midst of the crisis and when further waves of infection are expected, it will continuously evolve to consider the changing nature of the subject matter. Future editions will be updated in view of new findings, the latest research, revised policy measures and ongoing feedback from readers. This volume is a hybrid between a light academic book and an essay. It includes theory and practical examples but is chiefly explanatory, containing many conjectures and ideas about what the post, pandemic world might, and perhaps should, look like. It offers neither simple generalizations nor recommendations for a world moving to a new normal, but we trust it will be useful. This book is structured around three main chapters, offering a panoramic overview of the future landscape. The first assesses what the impact of the pandemic will be on five key macro categories: the economic, societal, geopolitical, environmental and technological factors. The second considers the effects in micro terms, on specific industries and companies. The third hypothesizes about the nature of the possible consequences at the individual level. One. MACRO RESET. The first leg of our journey progresses across five macro categories that offer a comprehensive analytical framework to understand what’s going on in today’s world and how this might evolve. For ease of reading, we travel thematically through each separately. In reality, they are interdependent, which is where we begin: our brains make us think in linear terms, but the world that surrounds us is non, linear, that is to say: complex, adaptive, fast, paced and ambiguous. 1.1. Conceptual framework , Three defining characteristics of today’s world The macro reset will occur in the context of the three prevailing secular forces that shape our world today: interdependence, velocity and complexity. This trio exerts its force, to a lesser or greater degree, on us all, whoever or wherever we may be. 1.1.1. Interdependence. If just one word had to distil the essence of the Twenty-first century, it would have to be “interdependence”. A byproduct of globalization and technological progress, it can essentially be defined as the dynamic of reciprocal dependence among the elements that compose a system. The fact that globalization and technological progress have advanced so much over the past few decades has prompted some pundits to declare that the world is now “hyper, connected”, a variant of interdependence on steroids! What does this interdependence mean in practice? Simply that the world is “concatenated”: linked together. In the early 2010s, Kishore Mahbubani, an academic and former diplomat from Singapore, captured this reality with a boat metaphor: “The 7 billion people who inhabit planet earth no longer live in more than one hundred separate boats countries. Instead, they all live in 193 separate cabins on the same boat.” In his own words, this is one of the greatest transformations ever. In 2020, he pursued this metaphor further in the context of the pandemic by writing: “If we 7.5 billion people are now stuck together on a virus, infected cruise ship, does it make sense to clean and scrub only our personal cabins while ignoring the corridors and air wells outside, through which the virus travels? The answer is clearly: no. Yet, this is what we have been doing. Since we are now in the same boat, humanity has to take care of the global boat as a whole”. An interdependent world is a world of deep systemic connectivity, in which all risks affect each other through a web of complex interactions. In such conditions, the assertion that an economic risk will be confined to the economic sphere or that an environmental risk won’t have repercussions on risks of a different nature, economic, geopolitical and so on, is no longer tenable. We can all think of economic risks turning into political ones, like a sharp rise in unemployment leading to pockets of social unrest, or of technological risks mutating into societal ones, such as the issue of tracing the pandemic on mobile phones provoking a societal backlash. When considered in isolation, individual risks, whether economic, geopolitical, societal or environmental in character, give the false impression that they can be contained or mitigated; in real life, systemic connectivity shows this to be an artificial construct. In an interdependent world, risks amplify each other and, in so doing, have cascading effects. That is why isolation or containment cannot rhyme with interdependence and interconnectedness. The chart in the text, extracted from the World Economic Forum Global Risks Report 2020, makes this plain. It illustrates the interconnected nature of the risks we collectively face; each individual risk always conflates with those from its own macro category but also with the individual risks from the other macro categories (economic risks appear in blue, geopolitical in orange, societal in red, environmental in green and technological in purple). In this manner, each individual risk harbours the potential to create ricochet effects by provoking other risks. As the chart makes clear, an “infectious diseases” risk is bound to have a direct effect on “global governance failure”, “social instability”, “unemployment”, “fiscal crises” and “involuntary migration” (to name just a few). Each of these in turn will influence other individual risks, meaning that the individual risk from which the chain of effects started (in this particular case “infectious diseases”) ends up amplifying many other risks not only in its own macro category (societal risks), but also in the other four macro categories. This displays the phenomenon of contagion by systemic connectivity. In the following sub, chapters, we explore what the pandemic risk might entail from an economic, societal, geopolitical, environmental and technological perspective. Interdependence has an important conceptual effect: it invalidates “silo thinking”. Since conflation and systemic connectivity are what ultimately matter, addressing a problem or assessing an issue or a risk in isolation from the others is senseless and futile. In the past, this “silo thinking” partly explains why so many economists failed to predict the credit crisis (in 2008) and why so few political scientists saw the Arab Spring coming (in 2011). Today, the problem is the same with the pandemic. Epidemiologists, public, health specialists, economists, social scientists and all the other scientists and specialists who are in the business of helping decision, makers understand what lies ahead find it difficult (and sometimes impossible) to cross the boundaries of their own discipline. That is why addressing complex trade, offs, such as containing the progression of the pandemic versus reopening the economy, is so fiendishly difficult. Understandably, most experts end up being segregated into increasingly narrow fields. Therefore, they lack the enlarged view necessary to connect the many different dots that provide the more complete picture the decision, makers desperately need. 1.1.2. Velocity. The above firmly points the finger at technological progress and globalization as the primary “culprits” responsible for greater interdependence. In addition, they have created such a culture of immediacy that it’s not an exaggeration to claim that, in today’s world, everything moves much faster than before. If just one thing were to be singled out to explain this astonishing increase in velocity, it would undoubtedly be the internet. More than half (52 percent) of the world’s population is now online, compared to less than 8 percent 20 years ago; in 2019, more than 1.5 billion smartphones, a symbol and vector of velocity that allows us to be reached anywhere and at any time, were sold around the world. The internet of things (IoT) now connects 22 billion devices in real time, ranging from cars to hospital beds, electric grids and water station pumps, to kitchen ovens and agricultural irrigation systems. This number is expected to reach 50 billion or more in 2030. Other explanations for the rise in velocity point to the “scarcity” element: as societies get richer, time becomes more valuable and is therefore perceived as evermore scarce. This may explain studies showing that people in wealthy cities always walk faster than in poor cities , they have no time to lose! No matter what the causal explanation is, the endgame of all this is clear: as consumers and producers, spouses and parents, leaders and followers, we are all being subjected to constant, albeit discontinuous, rapid change. We can see velocity everywhere; whether it’s a crisis, social discontent, technological developments and adoption, geopolitical upheaval, the financial markets and, of course, the manifestation of infectious diseases , everything now runs on fast, forward. As a result, we operate in a real, time society, with the nagging feeling that the pace of life is ever increasing. This new culture of immediacy, obsessed with speed, is apparent in all aspects of our lives, from “just, in, time” supply chains to “high, frequency” trading, from speed dating to fast food. It is so pervasive that some pundits call this new phenomenon the “dictatorship of urgency”. It can indeed take extreme forms. Research performed by scientists at Microsoft shows, for example, that being slower by no more than 250 milliseconds (a quarter of a second) is enough for a website to lose hits to its “faster” competitors! The all, embracing result is that the shelf life of a policy, a product or an idea, and the life cycle of a decision, maker or a project, are contracting sharply and often unpredictably. Nothing illustrated this more vividly than the breakneck speed with which COVID, 19 progressed in March 2020. In less than a month, from the maelstrom provoked by the staggering speed at which the pandemic engulfed most of the world, a whole new era seemed to emerge. The beginning of the outbreak was thought to have taken place in China sometime earlier, but the exponential global progression of the pandemic took many decision, makers and a majority of the public by surprise because we generally find it cognitively hard to grasp the significance of exponential growth. Consider the following in terms of “days for doubling”: if a pandemic grows at 30 percent a day (as COVID, 19 did around mid, March for some of the worst affected countries), registered cases (or deaths) will double in a little more than two days. If it grows at 20 percent, it will take between four and five days; and if it grows at 10 percent, it will take just more than a week. Expressed differently: at the global level, it took COVID, 19 three months to reach 100,000 cases, 12 days to double to 200,000 cases, four days to reach 300,000 cases, and then 400,000 and 500,000 cases were reached in two days each. These numbers make our heads spin, extreme velocity in action! Exponential growth is so baffling to our cognitive functions that we often deal with it by developing exponential “myopia”, thinking of it as nothing more than “very fast”. In a famous experiment conducted in 1975, two psychologists found that when we have to predict an exponential process, we often underestimate it by factor of 10. Understanding this growth dynamic and the power of exponentials clarifies why velocity is such an issue and why the speed of intervention to curb the rate of growth is so crucial. Ernest Hemingway understood this. In his novel The Sun Also Rises, two characters have the following conversation: “How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked. “Two ways,” Mike said. “Gradually, then suddenly.” The same tends to happen for big systemic shifts and disruption in general: things tend to change gradually at first and then all at once. Expect the same for the macro reset. Not only does velocity take extreme forms, but it can also engender perverse effects. “Impatience”, for example, is one, the effects of which can be seen similarly in the behaviour of participants in the financial markets (with new research suggesting that momentum trading, based on velocity, leads stock prices to deviate persistently from their fundamental value or “correct” price) and in that of voters in an election. The latter will have a critical relevance in the post, pandemic era. Governments, by necessity, take a while to make decisions and implement them: they are obliged to consider many different constituency groups and competing interests, balance domestic concerns with external considerations and secure legislative approval, before putting into motion the bureaucratic machinery to action all these decisions. By contrast, voters expect almost immediate policy results and improvements, which, when they don’t arrive fast enough, lead to almost instantaneous disappointment. This problem of asynchronicity between two different groups (policy, makers and the public) whose time horizon differs so markedly will be acute and very difficult to manage in the context of the pandemic. The velocity of the shock and (the depth) of the pain it has inflicted will not and cannot be matched with equal velocity on the policy side. Velocity also led many observers to establish a false equivalence by comparing seasonal flu with COVID, 19. This comparison, made again and again in the early months of the pandemic, was misleading and conceptually erroneous. Let’s take the example of the US to hammer out the point and better grasp the role played by velocity in all of this. According to the Centers for Disease Control (CDC), between 39 and 56 million Americans contracted the flu during the 2019, 2020 winter season, with between 24,000 and 62,000 deaths. By contrast, and according to Johns Hopkins University, on 24 June 2020, more than 2.3 million were diagnosed with COVID, 19 and almost 121,000 people had died. But the comparison stops there; it is meaningless for two reasons: 1) the flu numbers correspond to the estimated total flu burden while the COVID, 19 figures are confirmed cases; and 2) the seasonal flu cascades in “gentle” waves over a period of (up to six) months in an even pattern while the COVID, 19 virus spreads like a tsunami in a hotspot pattern (in a handful of cities and regions where it concentrates) and, in doing so, can overwhelm and jam healthcare capacities, monopolizing hospitals to the detriment of non, COVID, 19 patients. The second reason , the velocity with which the COVID, 19 pandemic surges and the suddenness with which clusters emerge , makes all the difference and renders the comparison with the flu irrelevant. Velocity lies at the root of the first and second reasons: in a vast majority of countries, the speed with which the epidemic progressed made it impossible to have sufficient testing capabilities, and it then overwhelmed many national health systems equipped to deal with a predictable, recurrent and rather slow seasonal flu but not with a “superfast” pandemic. Another important and far, reaching consequence of velocity is that decision, makers have more information and more analysis than ever before, but less time to decide. For politicians and business leaders, the need to gain a strategic perspective collides ever, more frequently with the day, to, day pressures of immediate decisions, particularly obvious in the context of the pandemic, and reinforced by complexity, as we see in the next section. 1.1.3. Complexity In its simplest possible form, complexity can be defined as what we don’t understand or find difficult to understand. As for a complex system, the psychologist Herbert Simon defined it as “one made up of a large number of parts that interact in a nonsimple way”. Complex systems are often characterized by an absence of visible causal links between their elements, which makes them virtually impossible to predict. Deep in ourselves, we sense that the more complex a system is, the greater the likelihood that something might go wrong and that an accident or an aberration might occur and propagate. Complexity can roughly be measured by three factors: “1) the amount of information content or the number of components in a system; 2) the interconnectedness , defined as the dynamic of reciprocal responsiveness , between these pieces of information or components; and 3) the effect of non, linearity (non, linear elements are often called ‘tipping points’). Non, linearity is a key feature of complexity because it means that a change in just one component of a system can lead to a surprising and disproportionate effect elsewhere.” It is for this reason that pandemic models so often yield wide ranges of outcomes: a difference of assumption regarding just one component of the model can dramatically affect the end result. When one hears about “black swans”, “known unknowns” or “butterfly effects”, non, linearity is at work; it thus comes as no surprise that we often associate world complexity with “surprises”, “turbulence” and “uncertainty”. For example, in 2008, how many “experts” anticipated that mortgage, backed securities originating in the United States would cripple banks around the world and ultimately bring the global financial system to the verge of collapse? And in the early weeks of 2020, how many decision, makers foresaw the extent to which a possible pandemic would wreak havoc on some of the most sophisticated health systems in the world and would inflict such major damage to the global economy? A pandemic is a complex adaptive system comprising many different components or pieces of information (as diverse as biology or psychology), whose behaviour is influenced by such variables as the role of companies, economic policies, government intervention, healthcare politics or national governance. For this reason, it can and should be viewed as a “living network” that adapts to changing conditions , not something set in stone, but a system of interactions that is both complex and adaptive. It is complex because it represents a “cat’s cradle” of interdependence and interconnections from which it stems, and adaptive in the sense that its “behaviour” is driven by interactions between nodes (the organizations, the people , us!) that can become confused and “unruly” in times of stress (Will we adjust to the norms of confinement? Will a majority of us , or not , abide by the rules? etc.). The management (the containment, in this particular case) of a complex adaptive system requires continuous real, time but ever, changing collaboration between a vast array of disciplines, and between different fields within these disciplines. Just to provide a broad and oversimplified example, the containment of the coronavirus pandemic will necessitate a global surveillance network capable of identifying new outbreaks as soon as they arise, laboratories in multiple locations around the world that can rapidly analyse new viral strains and develop effective treatments, large IT infrastructures so that communities can prepare and react effectively, appropriate and coordinated policy mechanisms to efficiently implement the decisions once they are made, and so on. The important point is this: each separate activity by itself is necessary to address the pandemic but is insufficient if not considered in conjunction with the others. It follows that this complex adaptive system is greater than the sum of its parts. Its effectiveness depends on how well it works as a whole, and it is only as strong as its weakest link. Many pundits have mischaracterized the COVID, 19 pandemic as a black, swan event simply because it exhibits all the characteristics of a complex adaptive system. But in reality it is a white, swan event, something explicitly presented as such by Nassim Taleb in The Black Swan published in 2007: something that would eventually take place with a great deal of certainty. Indeed! For years, international organizations like the World Health Organization (WHO), institutions like the World Economic Forum and the Coalition for Epidemic Preparedness Innovations (CEPI , launched at the Annual Meeting 2017 in Davos), and individuals like Bill Gates have been warning us about the next pandemic risk, even specifying that it: 1) would emerge in a highly populated place where economic development forces people and wildlife together; 2) would spread quickly and silently by exploiting networks of human travel and trade; and 3) would reach multiple countries by thwarting containment. As we will see in the following chapters, properly characterizing the pandemic and understanding its characteristics are vital because they were what underpinned the differences in terms of preparedness. Many Asian countries reacted quickly because they were prepared logistically and organizationally (due to SARS) and thus were able to lessen the impact of the pandemic. By contrast, many Western countries were unprepared and were ravaged by the pandemic, it is no coincidence that they are the ones in which the false notion of a black, swan event circulated the most. However, we can confidently assert that the pandemic (a high probability, high consequences white, swan event) will provoke many black, swan events through second, , third, , fourth, and more, order effects. It is hard, if not impossible, to foresee what might happen at the end of the chain when multiple, order effects and their ensuing cascades of consequences have occurred after unemployment spikes, companies go bust and some countries are teetering on the verge of collapse. None of these are unpredictable per se, but it is their propensity to create perfect storms when they conflate with other risks that will take us by surprise. To sum up, the pandemic is not a black, swan event, but some of its consequences will be. The fundamental point here is this: complexity creates limits to our knowledge and understanding of things; it might thus be that today’s increasing complexity literally overwhelms the capabilities of politicians in particular, and decision, makers in general, to make well informed decisions. A theoretical physicist turned head of state (President Armen Sarkissian of Armenia) made this point when he coined the expression “quantum politics”, outlining how the classical world of post, Newtonian physics, linear, predictable and to some extent even deterministic , had given way to the quantum world: highly interconnected and uncertain, incredibly complex and also changing depending on the position of the observer. This expression recalls quantum physics, which explains how everything works and is “the best description we have of the nature of the particles that make up matter and the forces with which they interact.” The COVID, 19 pandemic has laid bare this quantum world. 1.2. Economic reset 1.2.1. The economics of COVID-19 Our contemporary economy differs radically from that of previous centuries. Compared to the past, it is infinitely more interconnected, intricate and complex. It is characterized by a world population that has grown exponentially, by airplanes that connect any point anywhere to another somewhere else in just a few hours, resulting in more than a billion of us crossing a border each year, by humans encroaching on nature and the habitats of wildlife, by ubiquitous, sprawling megacities that are home to millions of people living cheek by jowl (often without adequate sanitation and medical care). Measured against the landscape of just a few decades ago, let alone centuries ago, today’s economy is simply unrecognizable. Notwithstanding, some of the economic lessons to be gleaned from historical pandemics are still valid today to help grasp what lies ahead. The global economic catastrophe that we are now confronting is the deepest recorded since 1945; in terms of its sheer speed, it is unparalleled in history. Although it does not rival the calamities and the absolute economic desperation that societies endured in the past, there are some telling characteristics that are hauntingly similar. When in 1665, over the space of 18 months, the last bubonic plague had eradicated a quarter of London’s population, Daniel Defoe wrote in A Journal of the Plague Year (published in 1722): “All trades being stopped, employment ceased: the labour, and by that the bread, of the poor were cut off; and at first indeed the cries of the poor were most lamentable to hear , thousands of them having stayed in London till nothing but desperation sent them away, death overtook them on the road, and they served for no better than the messengers of death.” Defoe’s book is full of anecdotes that resonate with today’s situation, telling us how the rich were escaping to the country, “taking death with them”, and observing how the poor were much more exposed to the outbreak, or describing how “quacks and mountebanks” sold false cures. What the history of previous epidemics shows again and again is how pandemics exploit trade routes and the clash that exists between the interests of public health and those of economics (something that constitutes an economic “aberration” as we will see in just a few pages). As the historian Simon Schama describes: In the midst of calamity, economics was always at loggerheads with the interests of public health. Even though, until there was an understanding of germ-borne diseases, the plague was mostly attributed to ‘foul air’ and noxious vapours said to arise from stagnant or polluted marshes, there was nonetheless a sense that the very commercial arteries that had generated prosperity were now transformed into vectors of poison. But when quarantines were proposed or imposed (, ), those who stood to lose most, merchants and in some places artisans and workers, from the stoppage of markets, fairs and trade, put up stiff resistance. Must the economy die so that it could be resurrected in robust good health? Yes, said the guardians of public health, who became part of urban life in Europe from the 15th century onwards. History shows that epidemics have been the great resetter of countries’ economy and social fabric. Why should it be different with COVID-19? A seminal paper on the long-term economic consequences of major pandemics throughout history shows that significant macroeconomic after-effects can persist for as long as 40 years, substantially depressing real rates of return. This is in contrast to wars that have the opposite effect: they destroy capital while pandemics do not, wars trigger higher real interest rates, implying greater economic activity, while pandemics trigger lower real rates, implying sluggish economic activity. In addition, consumers tend to react to the shock by increasing their savings, either because of new precautionary concerns, or simply to replace the wealth lost during the epidemic. On the labour side, there will be gains at the expense of capital since real wages tend to rise after pandemics. As far back as the Black Death that ravaged Europe from 1347 to 1351 (and that suppressed 40 percent of Europe’s population in just a few years), workers discovered for the first time in their life that the power to change things was in their hands. Barely a year after the epidemic had subsided, textile workers in Saint-Omer (a small city in northern France) demanded and received successive wage rises. Two years later, many workers’ guilds negotiated shorter hours and higher pay, sometimes as much as a third more than their pre-plague level. Similar but less extreme examples of other pandemics point to the same conclusion: labour gains in power to the detriment of capital. Nowadays, this phenomenon may be exacerbated by the ageing of much of the population around the world (Africa and India are notable exceptions), but such a scenario today risks being radically altered by the rise of automation, an issue to which we will return in section 1.6. Unlike previous pandemics, it is far from certain that the COVID-19 crisis will tip the balance in favour of labour and against capital. For political and social reasons, it could, but technology changes the mix. 1.2.1.1. Uncertainty. The high degree of ongoing uncertainty surrounding COVID-19 makes it incredibly difficult to precisely assess the risk it poses. As with all new risks that are agents of fear, this creates a lot of social anxiety that impacts economic behaviour. An overwhelming consensus has emerged within the global scientific community that Jin Qi (one of China’s leading scientists) had it right when he said in April 2020: “This is very likely to be an epidemic that co-exists with humans for a long time, becomes seasonal and is sustained within human bodies.” Ever since the pandemic started, we have been bombarded daily with a relentless stream of data but, in June 2020, roughly half a year after the beginning of the outbreak, our knowledge is still very patchy and as a result we still don’t really know just how dangerous COVID-19 is. Despite the deluge of scientific papers published on the coronavirus, its infection fatality rate, meaning the number of COVID-19 cases, measured or not, that result in death) remains a matter of debate (around 0.4 percent-0.5 percent and possibly up to 1 percent). The ratio of undetected to confirmed cases, the rate of transmissions from asymptomatic individuals, the seasonality effect, the length of the incubation period, the national infection rates , progress in terms of understanding each of these is being made, but they and many other elements remain “known unknowns” to a large extent. For policy-makers and public officials, this prevailing level of uncertainty makes it very difficult to devise the right public-health strategy and the concomitant economic strategy. This should not come as a surprise. Anne Rimoin, a professor of epidemiology at UCLA, confesses: “This is a novel virus, new to humanity, and nobody knows what will happen.” Such circumstances require a good dose of humility because, in the words of Peter Piot (one of the world’s leading virologists): “The more we learn about the coronavirus, the more questions arise.” COVID-19 is a master of disguise that manifests itself with protean symptoms that are confounding the medical community. It is first and foremost a respiratory disease but, for a small but sizeable number of patients, symptoms range from cardiac inflammation and digestive problems to kidney infection, blood clots and meningitis. In addition, many people who recover are left with chronic kidney and heart problems, as well as lasting neurological effects. In the face of uncertainty, it makes sense to resort to scenarios to get a better sense of what lies ahead. With the pandemic, it is well understood that a wide range of potential outcomes is possible, subject to unforeseen events and random occurrences, but three plausible scenarios stand out. Each may help to delineate the contours of what the next two years could be like. These three plausible scenarios are all based on the core assumption that the pandemic could go on affecting us until 2022; thus they can help us to reflect upon what lies ahead. In the first scenario, the initial wave that began in March 2020 is followed by a series of smaller waves that occur through mid-2020 and then over a one- to two-year period, gradually diminishing in 2021, like “peaks and valleys”. The occurrence and amplitude of these peaks and valleys vary geographically and depend on the specific mitigation measures that are implemented. In the second scenario, the first wave is followed by a larger wave that takes place in the third or fourth quarter of 2020, and one or several smaller subsequent waves in 2021, like during the 1918 to 1919 Spanish flu pandemic. This scenario requires the reimplementation of mitigation measures around the fourth quarter of 2020 to contain the spread of infection and to prevent healthcare systems from being overwhelmed. In the third scenario, not seen with past influenza pandemics but possible for COVID-19, a “slow burn” of ongoing transmission and case occurrence follow the first wave of 2020, but without a clear wave pattern, just with smaller ups and downs. Like for the other scenarios, this pattern varies geographically and is to a certain extent determined by the nature of the earlier mitigation measures put into place in each particular country or region. Cases of infection and deaths continue to occur, but do not require the reinstitution of mitigation measures. A large number of scientists seem to agree with the framework offered by these three scenarios. Whichever of the three the pandemic follows, they all mean, as the authors explicitly state, that policy-makers must be prepared to deal with “at least another 18 to 24 months of significant COVID-19 activity, with hotspots popping up periodically in diverse geographic areas”. As we will argue next, a full-fledged economic recovery cannot take place until the virus is defeated or behind us. 1.2.1.2. The economic fallacy of sacrificing a few lives to save growth. Throughout the pandemic, there has been a perennial debate about “saving lives versus saving the economy”, lives versus livelihoods. This is a false trade-off. From an economic standpoint, the myth of having to choose between public health and a hit to GDP growth can easily be debunked. Leaving aside the (not insignificant) ethical issue of whether sacrificing some lives to save the economy is a social Darwinian proposition (or not), deciding not to save lives will not improve economic welfare. The reasons are twofold: 1. On the supply side, if prematurely loosening the various restrictions and the rules of social distancing result in an acceleration of infection (which almost all scientists believe it would), more employees and workers would become infected and more businesses would just stop functioning. After the onset of the pandemic in 2020, the validity of this argument was proven on several occasions. They ranged from factories that had to stop operating because too many workers had fallen ill (primarily the case for work environments that forced physical proximity between workers, like in meat-processing facilities) to naval ships stranded because too many crew members had been infected, thus preventing the vessel from operating normally. An additional factor that negatively affects the supply of labour is that, around the world, there were repeated instances of workers refusing to return to work for fear of becoming infected. In many large companies, employees who felt vulnerable to the disease generated a wave of activism, including work stoppages. 2. On the demand side, the argument boils down to the most basic, and yet fundamental, determinant of economic activity: sentiments. Because consumer sentiments are what really drive economies, a return to any kind of “normal” will only happen when and not before confidence returns. Individuals’ perceptions of safety drive consumer and business decisions, which means that sustained economic improvement is contingent upon two things: the confidence that the pandemic is behind us, without which people will not consume and invest, and the proof that the virus is defeated globally, without which people will not be able to feel safe first locally and subsequently further afield. The logical conclusion of these two points is this: governments must do whatever it takes and spend whatever it costs in the interests of our health and our collective wealth for the economy to recover sustainably. As both an economist and public-health specialist put it: “Only saving lives will save livelihoods”, making it clear that only policy measures that place people’s health at their core will enable an economic recovery, adding: “If governments fail to save lives, people afraid of the virus will not resume shopping, traveling, or dining out. This will hinder economic recovery, lockdown or no lockdown.” Only future data and subsequent analysis will provide incontrovertible proof that the trade-off between health and the economy does not exist. That said, some US data collected in the early phases of reopening in some states showed a drop in spending and working even before the lockdown. Once people began to worry about the pandemic, they effectively started to “shut down” the economy, even before the government had officially asked them to do so. A similar phenomenon took place after some American states decided to (partially) reopen: consumption remained subdued. This proves the point that economic life cannot be activated by fiat, but it also illustrates the predicament that most decision-makers experienced when having to decide whether to reopen or not. The economic and societal damage of a lockdown is glaringly obvious to everybody, while success in terms of containing the outbreak and preventing deaths, a prerequisite for a successful opening , is more or less invisible. There is no public celebration when a coronavirus case or death doesn’t happen, leading to the public-health policy paradox that “when you do it right, nothing happens”. This is why delaying the lockdown or opening too early was always such a strong policy temptation. However, several studies have since shown how such a temptation carried considerable risk. Two, in particular, coming to similar conclusions with different methodologies, modelled what could have happened without lockdown. According to one conducted by Imperial College London, wide-scale rigorous lockdowns imposed in March 2020 averted 3.1 million deaths in 11 European countries (including the UK, Spain, Italy, France and Germany). The other, led by the University of California, Berkeley, concluded that 530 million total infections, corresponding to 62 million confirmed cases, were averted in six countries (China, South Korea, Italy, Iran, France and the US) by the confinement measures that each had put into place. The simple conclusion: in countries afflicted with registered COVID-19 cases that, at the peak, were roughly doubling every two days, governments had no reasonable alternative but to impose rigorous lockdowns. Pretending otherwise is to ignore the power of exponential growth and the considerable damage it can inflict through a pandemic. Because of the extreme velocity of the COVID-19 progression, the timing and forcefulness of the intervention were of the essence. 1.2.2. Growth and employment. Before March 2020, never had the world economy come to such an abrupt and brutal stop; never before had anyone alive experienced an economic collapse so dramatic and drastic both in its nature and pace. The shock that the pandemic has inflicted on the global economy has been more severe and has occurred much faster than anything else in recorded economic history. Even in the Great Depression in the early 1930s and the Global Financial Crisis in 2008, it took several years for GDP to contract by 10 percent or more and for unemployment to soar above 10 percent. With the pandemic, disaster-like macroeconomic outcomes, in particular exploding unemployment levels and plunging GDP growth, happened in March 2020 over the course of just three weeks. COVID-19 inflicted a crisis of both supply and demand that led to the deepest dive on record for the global economy for over 100 years. As the economist Kenneth Rogoff warned: “Everything depends on how long it lasts, but if this goes on for a long time, it’s certainly going to be the mother of all financial crises.” The length and acuteness of the downturn, and its subsequent hit to growth and employment, depend on three things: 1) the duration and severity of the outbreak; 2) each country’s success at containing the pandemic and mitigating its effects; and 3) the cohesiveness of each society in dealing with the post-confinement measures and the various opening strategies. At the time of writing (end of June 2020), all three aspects remain unknown. Renewed waves of outbreaks (big and small) are occurring, countries’ success at containing the outbreak can either last or suddenly be reversed by new waves, and societies’ cohesion can be challenged by renewed economic and social pain. 1.2.2.1. Economic growth. At different moments between February and May 2020, in a bid to contain the pandemic, governments worldwide made the deliberate decision to shut down much of their respective economies. This unprecedented course of events has brought with it a fundamental shift in the way the world economy operates, marked by an abrupt and unsolicited return to a form of relative autarky, with every nation trying to move towards certain forms of self-sufficiency, and a reduction in national and global output. The impact of these decisions seemed all the more dramatic because they concerned first and foremost service industries, a sector traditionally more immune than other industries (like construction or manufacturing) to the cyclical swings of economic growth. Consequently, the service sector that represents by far the largest component of economic activity in any developed economy (about 70 percent of GDP and more than 80 percent of employment in the US) was hit the hardest by the pandemic. It also suffered from another distinctive characteristics: contrary to manufacturing or agriculture, lost revenues in services are gone forever. They cannot be deferred because service companies don’t hold inventories or stock raw materials. Several months into the pandemic, it looks like even a semblance of a return to “business as usual” for most service companies is inconceivable as long as COVID-19 remains a threat to our health. This in turn suggests that a full return to “normal” cannot be envisaged before a vaccine is available. When might that be? According to most experts, it is unlikely to be before the first quarter of 2021 at the earliest. In mid-June 2020, already more than 135 trials were under way, proceeding at a remarkable pace considering that in the past it could take up to 10 years to develop a vaccine (five in the case of Ebola), so the reason is not science, but production. Manufacturing billions of doses constitutes the real challenge that will require a massive expansion and diversion of existing capacity. The next hurdle is the political challenge of vaccinating enough people worldwide (we are collectively as strong as the weakest link) with a high enough compliance rate despite the rise of anti-vaxxers. During the intervening months, the economy will not operate at full capacity: a country-dependent phenomenon dubbed the 80 percent economy. Companies in sectors as varied as travel, hospitality, retail or sports and events will face the following triple whammy: 1) fewer customers (who will respond to uncertainty by becoming more risk-averse); 2) those who consume will spend less on average (because of precautionary savings); and 3) transaction costs will be higher (serving one customer will cost more because of physical-distancing and sanitation measures). Taking into account the criticality of services for GDP growth (the richer the country, the greater the importance of services for growth), this new reality of a 80 percent economy begs the question of whether successive possible shutdowns of business activity in the service sector will have lasting effects on the broader economy through bankruptcies and losses of employment, which in turn begs the question of whether these possible lasting effects could be followed by a collapse in demand as people lose their income and their confidence in the future. Such a scenario will almost inevitably lead to a collapse in investment among business and a surge in precautionary saving among consumers, with fallout in the entire global economy through capital flight, the rapid and uncertain movement of large amounts of money out of a country, which tends to exacerbate economic crises. According to the OECD, the immediate yearly impact of the economy having been “switched-off” could be a reduction in GDP in the G7 countries of between 20 percent and 30 percent. But again, this estimate depends on the outbreak’s duration and severity in each country: the longer lockdowns last, the greater the structural damage they inflict by leaving permanent scars in the economy through job losses, bankruptcies and capital spending cancellations. As a rule of thumb, every month that large parts of an economy remain closed, annual growth might fall by a further 2 percentage points. But as we would expect, the relationship between the duration of restrictive measures and the corresponding impact on GDP is not linear. The Dutch central planning bureau found that every additional month of containment results in a greater, non-proportional deterioration of economic activity. According to the model, a full month of economic “hibernation” would result in a loss of 1.2 percent in Dutch growth in 2020, while three months would cause a 5 percent loss. For the regions and countries that have already exited lockdowns, it is too early to tell how GDP growth will evolve. At the end of June 2020, some V-shaped data (like the eurozone Purchasing Manufacturing Indices - PMI) and a bit of anecdotal evidence generated a stronger-than-expected rebound narrative, but we should not get carried away for two reasons: 1. The marked improvement in PMI in the eurozone and the US does not mean that these economies have turned the corner. It simply indicates that business activity has improved compared to previous months, which is natural since a significant pickup in activity should follow the period of inactivity caused by rigorous lockdowns. 2. In terms of future growth, one of the most meaningful indicators to watch is the savings rate. In April (admittedly during the lockdown), the US personal savings rate climbed to 33 percent while, in the eurozone, the household savings rate (calculated differently than the US personal savings rate) rose to 19 percent. They will both significantly drop as the economies reopen, but probably not enough to prevent these rates from remaining at historically elevated levels. In its “World Economic Outlook Update” published in June 2020, the International Monetary Fund (I

Rahan. The son of the ferocious ages. Episode Thirty Eight. The Sign of Fear. The man who was armed with the solid stick could easily have broken the skull of the reptile that threatened him. But he remained motionless, as if petrified with fear. But strike, brother! What are you waiting for to break the neck of this snake!? The passive attitude of the hunter amazed the son of Crao. But it was then that he noticed, on the forehead of the unknown, the sign with which certain clans mark the fearful and the cowardly. Rahan understands! He will kill it for you!! Page Two: The ivory cutlass flew to the reptile that was ready to uncoil. The body was slender but Rahan's skill was such. That the blade pierced it right through! All you have to do is finish it! I hope you will have the courage. The stranger decided to strike, breaking the snake's head. Maha thanks you for coming to his aide! As Rahan retrieved his weapon, the man was again seized with fear made a fleeing movement. Do not be afraid, Maha! Rahan never attacks "Those-who-walk-upright", when they are not quarreling with him! And I do not think Maha would quarrel with him, would he? Page Three: Maha never fights, he never kills. Maha was driven from his clan after being branded with the mark of infamy. Ever since Maha has been afraid. Fear of wild animals and darkness. Fear of enemies and fire in the sky. Maha has always fled from danger! The son of Crao felt more pity than contempt for this man who had thus confessed his weakness. All "Those-who-walk-upright" have, at least once in their life, experienced fear. But fear is something to fight! Does Maha want to pass the night with Rahan? Maha accepts. Especially since he knows. That this forest haunted by the "Kayaks", formidable hunters who cut off the hands of all those who violate their territory! Page Four: The two men dozed off by the dying fire. Rahan, as usual, had his knife within reach. Before falling asleep, a curious idea occurred to him. Maha thinks he is too scared! He should get that idea out of his head!! Maha discreetly observed Rahan, who had just fallen asleep. He also observed the ivory knife. With such a weapon, Would Maha perhaps be less afraid? When the son of Crao awoke. Maha had disappeared. And his knife as well! Maha has betrayed Raha's trust! But Rahan will find him! Indeed, he quickly found the traces of the fugitive. These followed a huge fault, as deep as it was steep. Page Five: And suddenly, he discovered the man, a few steps from a tree. Maha was training to throw his knife. He wants to imitate Rahan! Amused, the son of Crao remained in ambush. The clumsily projected knife struck the trunk indifferently. And suddenly it was a tragedy! The knife, missing the trunk, continued its flight and slid over the rock, and disappeared into the crack which seemed to be bottomless! Rahan thought his heart stopped beating. Then anger made him spring from the thickets. That knife has saved Rahan's life a hundred times over! It is his only treasure!! Maha panicked and did not have time to flee. He was violently thrown to the ground. Maha deserves to join the cutlass! Page Six: The man screamed in fright when the son of the fierce ages snatched him from the ground. No, No! Have pity, he screamed! And carried him to the crevasse. Rahan, on the edge of the abyss, hesitated. He always hesitated to take the life of "Those-who-walk-upright". Rahan should, you! He, He, He cannot! He freed Maha, who was stupefied by this clemency. Rahan has let you live, but you will help him find his knife!! The idea he had had the day before came back to him. You will drink the "Potion of Bravery" and you will no longer know fear! The “Potion of Bravery”? It is a secret revealed to me by Crao, my father. Rahan was already breaking one of these "Fruits of wood" whose flavor he had once discovered. Page Seven: Then in the coconut, he crushed berries picked from surrounding shrubs. This beverage chases away fear and restores courage! Rahan has already drunk this potion of bravery? He drinks it every day! Leading by example, Rahan took a sip of the thick mixture. Maha, convinced, eagerly swallowed the rest of the drink. From now on, you will be able to face the most fearsome of the "Doyaks"! But why would Maha face a "Doyak"? Because Rahan will tie vines to himself to descend into this fault. And a "Doyak" might come up and cut through those vines. But Maha will stay there to stop it, to allow Rahan to descend into the Chasm! Page Eight: No one has ever trusted Maha like this! You have already saved Maha's life. Maha will protect yours!! Soon after, Maha was admiring the skill with which the son of Crao tied together the long vines torn from the trees. Rahan knows how to do everything! No, he knows a lot of things, but he would like to know more! He would like to have as many ideas in his head as there are leaves in these trees! The vine was tied to a trunk and thrown into the void. And the son of the fierce ages slid down the wall. This one was so smooth that, if the vine were to give way, it would be impossible for him to get out of this abyss! Rahan's life will hang on this line, brother! Page Nine: Rahan was playing a dangerous game. He had invented this so-called secret "Potion of Bravery" to restore Maha's confidence. But would not this one, at the slightest danger, be oppressed by his fear? Would he not abandon the creeper he was keeping? As he continued his descent a swarm of bats rose from the shadows and circled around him. But the man who violated their lair worried these beasts, who disappeared without daring to attack him. Sometimes, high above, Rahan glimpsed the bust of Maha who addressed him with signs of friendship. He remains! He is not giving up on Rahan! Page Ten: Although very deep, this fault was wide enough for daylight to enter. The descent was exhausting and the son of Crao sometimes clung to a knot in the vine to catch his breath. Rahan may find his knife, but he will never have enough strength to come back up. Screams suddenly rang out, dampened by the distance. What is happening up there? The “Doyaks”? Two "Doyaks" had just emerged from the bushes. They laughed and pointed with contempt to the man with the forehead marked with the "sign of fear". How dare a coward venture into Doyak territory!? No doubt you have lost your way! Page Eleven: What are you doing near this vine? Who were you waving at a moment ago? The "Doyak" hunter approached, threateningly. Your hands will adorn the entrance to my hut!! Again, Maha experienced fear. But he hesitated. Should he flee, as he had always done? Or should he face these savage "Hand Cutters" and keep the promise made to Rahan? Who meanwhile approached the bottom and had a shudder of repugnance, as under him spread out a thick carpet of cobwebs. These webs were intertwined, and overlapped in many layers that the dust of time had made opaque and disturbing. Page Twelve: However, at the edge of the rift, Maha felt overwhelmed by an unknown feeling. Maha is not afraid of the "Dayaks!" Step back!! Step back!! The two hunters rushed forward laughing. And Maha did not have time to oppose one who cut the vine with an ax! The son of fierce ages fell suddenly on the repulsive carpet, and burst it with his weight. And his limbs were entangled in the threads. He found himself under the webs that wove a gray sky above him. Oh! The knife! The ivory weapon, held up by a thick canvas, was there! He only had to jump to grab it! Page Thirteen: The polished handle he gripped gave him a moment's confidence. But the canvas roof began to vibrate. And he understood that the mistress of this kingdom was about to arise. And the giant tarantula did indeed appear, horribly hairy, and bigger than those sea turtles he had once encountered. The son of fierce ages knew this monster was terribly venomous. Rahan must not let him approach! He must flee! He thought for a moment of throwing his knife. But, if he did not reach a vital organ, he would be at the mercy of the monster. Severing the threads that hindered his escape, he therefore rushed under the cobwebs, towards the glimpses of daylight. Page Fourteen: He finally saw the sky again, but the tarantula did not abandon its prey! The melee would be fatal to Rahan! He would be struck down by your venom! Argh! Suddenly a scream rang out and Rahan saw a man's body spinning in the air. A long spear accompanied the hunter in his fall. Maha did not abandon me! He fights up there! The "Doyak" had just crashed on the rocks. And the son of Crao, rushing to his spear, was already facing the giant spider. Rahan can now kill you without approaching you! The hairy legs waved and the tarantula rushed towards the man! Page Fifteen: The tip of the spear disappeared entirely between the monster's two eyes. But as the latter was still moving, Rahan struck again, even more violently. Ra-ha-ha! And the cry of victory of the son of the wild ages thundered in the fault, and rose towards the sky. Rahan has found his knife. Rahan has triumphed over this horrible beast. But Rahan is still a prisoner in this fissure!! Climbing this polished granite wall was indeed unthinkable! And the long creeper, whose fall had dislocated the tarantula's kingdom, was of no use to him! Page Sixteen: Only Maha can still save Rahan, by throwing him a new vine, thought Rahan! But Maha may have fled! Or maybe he was killed by “Doyaks” like this! Rahan was there in his thoughts when. Courage, Rahan! You will soon be out! Of this cursed fissure!! Maha! And no sooner had the echo carried away Maha's voice than a long vine whipped the wall of the vault and unrolled at his feet. Thankyou Maha! Thankyou Brother! Yes, by betting on the confidence of the man struck with the mark of infamy, Rahan had played a risky game. Page Seventeen: But he was happy just to have taken the chance. He started climbing. The son of Crao was agile and his muscles strong. But he knew he would have to make a tremendous effort to pull himself up more than a hundred meters! A few bats returned, more menacing than before. And it was then that he felt himself hoisted up without making any effort! What is going on up there thought Rahan? Maha is not strong enough to lift Rahan up so!? All he had to do now was use his legs to make the climb easier! The edge of the fault was soon very close. Page Eighteen: When he approached the edge, the sight left him speechless. Several "Doyak" hunters were hauling at the vine that passed around a tree. A few steps away, Maha had knocked down and was threatening another "Doyak" with an ax. Rahan was right! The "Potion of Bravery” has made Maha a Brave Man! Maha explained how, assailed by the chief and his "Doyaks", he had thrown one of them into the fault. Argh! And how he had succeeded in mastering the second! Ouch! When the clan that followed them arrived, this one was at my mercy! In threatening their leader with death I forced the "Doyaks” to obey me!! Page Nineteen: They are the ones who tied the vines and pulled Rahan out of the abyss! Maha’s eyes had a new look, a look from which fear had disappeared! What are we going to do with these men, Rahan? Let them return to their village! But let them know from now on that the sign of fear means nothing! Maha has just proved that this brand has no meaning! This stupid rite only humiliates the one on whom it is inflicted! Rahan and Maha kept the chief for a while longer until the Doyaks had gone very far into the forest, then they freed him. Go! Go! And tell everywhere and to everyone that a man marked with the sign of fear has dictated his law to a clan of "Doyaks"! Page Twenty: The setting sun was still blazing above the mountains. Maha will never have to be ashamed of that scar again! But he will have to drink the potion of bravery every day! Ha-ha-ha-ha, Rahan roared in laughter! The potion does not exist! It was just the juice of some wild berries! Rahan imagined this ruse to give you confidence! Or rather, for you to recover confidence in yourself! The Ruse succeeded, because of great courage. A courage that you found in yourself! Join your clan and approach your brothers without shame! Maha's gaze had become calm like that of a sage, clear like that of a hunter. The sun was still shining on the scar, but Maha smiled proudly. And the son of fierce ages felt very happy. Because that was how Rahan liked to see his brothers. "Those-who-walk-upright", smiling! Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

Rahan. Episode Thirty Nine. The Bonds of Truth. In these wild times, each clan fiercely guarded its hunting territory. So the son of Crao was not surprised to be intercepted by three men. What he was surprised by was the point of their arrows, as fine and polished as his ivory cutlass The man with the fire-hair is going to die! The arrows flew away, and stuck at the same time in the trunk, behind which Rahan had thrown himself. Chtok! Chtok! Chtok! Page Two: The hunters did not have time to redraw their bows, before he disappeared into the thick refuge of the foliage. I am Rahan, the son of Crao! And Rahan is not the enemy of the men of the valley!! An arrow mewed in the foliage. Another lifted the bark from the branch where he was standing. Rahan had seen it clearly. These points are cut from a “Two Tooth” ivory! The growl of a puma, behind him, made him forget the first danger. You do not want to share your lair with Rahan! Thus, two perils threatened the son of fierce ages. Before him, the hunters saw the feline who was about to pounce. The ivory knife springs from its sheath. Page Three: The men, lowering their bows, observed the fight. They laughed when Rahan, losing his balance, grabbed a branch. Ha-ha-ha! The one with “Fire-Hair” is not very agile! They did not know that it was only a feint, and now Rahan was now under the puma, his ivory blade cut through the beast. Ra-ha-ha! But he had not foreseen that the heavy beast, struck dead, would fall on him and drag him down as he fell. His head hit the ground. And he remained motionless. An arrow rose up, pointed at his chest. No! Not yet! Rahan needs to tell us where his weapon came from! The intrigued hunters observed the knife. Only those who know the "Valley of Two Teeth" would possess a weapon like this! Page Four: When the son of Crao recovered his senses, he was shackled on a sort of travois. You want to kill Rahan. Why are you sparing him? Because your cutlass intrigues us! We want to know how you discovered “The Valley of the Two Teeth!” We also need to know if you revealed the secret to other hunters! Your words are too mysterious! Rahan has never seen this valley you speak of! This knife has always belonged to him! He already had it when he was just a little man. Only the sorcerer can tell the clan if you are telling the truth! A curious village had just appeared. In front of each hut and there was a mammoth tusk! Page Five: On the hill overlooking this village stood, intertwined, two front tusks belonging to a mastodon of exceptional size. Where can this clan get so much ivory? The son of Crao noticed a group of women polishing arrowheads. The sorcerer who was approaching wore horns and his necklaces was also loaded with ivory trinkets. Our hunters told Nara how they had captured Fire hair Rahan. This knife proves. That you discovered the secret of our clan!! The son of Crao repeated that he had stolen the ivory cutlass, long ago, from the leader of a horde who wanted to end his life. Page Six: This horde knew, like your clan, the use that can be made of the tusks of the "Two-tooth" by "Those-who-walk-upright"! Naara must believe Rahan! The sorcerer and the chief consulted each other. They seemed more incredulous than hostile to the captive. The “Links-of-Truth” Will Tell If Rahan Is Deceiving Us! Naara approached his hut in front of which vines hung. He chose the finest. The hunter who does not lie has a light body! Rahan will hang at the great gate of the valley until sunrise! If these links remain until the day it is because Rahan will have told the truth! He will then be free to leave our territory! Page Seven: But if the bonds break it is because Rahan's body is too heavy with lies!! We will then hunt him down to send him to the “Territory of Shadows”! Naara the sorcerer had launched his verdict with vigor but without rage or hatred. The son of Crao was pushed towards the portal without brutality. Straw bracelets were even woven around his wrists to protect him from the bite of the lines. Then they abandoned him hanging from the tusks which dominated the village on one side and an immense valley on the other. And it was then that he thought he was living a nightmare. On dozens of arrowheads, as far as his sight was, there were interspersed "Two-teeth" skeletons!! Page Eight: He remembered the superstitions of some hunters, saying that "Two-Tooths" who were mortally wounded or too old found themselves in their own "Territory of Shadows". And Rahan has today before his eyes what he believed to be a legend! But Rahan now knows where Naara's clan gets the ivory and why he wants to keep the location of the valley a secret! The vines tightened on the straw bracelets, but did not cause him any pain. But they are so fine! Too thin!! If these fragile bonds gave way, he would be hunted down by the clan and put to death. If they resisted he would be free! Page Nine: A Strange situation. The son of Crao had often been strangled by enemies. But never before had he wished for his bonds to resist!! The links of truth! What a stupid spell! If Naara-the-sorcerer invented it, he deserved to suffer it himself! Perhaps to show the fairness of the ordeal, Rahan had been left his ivory cutlass. Similarly, his arms remained free. But he knew too well that his weight, sooner or later, would break the bonds. So he avoided any movement that would have caused their rupture. At the bottom of the hill he observed the great portal where the captive was hung. Maybe he told the truth Naara!? The links of truth will decide at sunrise! Page Ten: The sun dipped over the valley, glowing red on the bones bristling with long tusks. If Rahan's body remained frozen, his spirit did not. A few links will break, and the clan will set out in pursuit of Rahan! Rahan will therefore only have "The Valley of Two Teeth" as his escape route! Perhaps the night will come to his aid. If these links last until the night. Ouch! Crack! Some fibers had just broken!! And the others broke one by one! The clan that was waiting for its fall would soon climb the hill to take down “Fire-Hair-the-Liar”! Page Eleven: Rahan wants to live! The ties must hold at least until the night! The son of fierce ages had just had an idea. His hands clung to the "Links of Truth", and he twisted his fingers over the breaks that were about to occur. The straw bracelets he wore no longer protected him, and the pain was excruciating. Certainly, the fine vines could still break above his fingers but he had bought some time! Precious time, since the sky was quickly darkening. Another moment and Rahan will be able to drop and flee! The “Links of Truth” still stand! Rahan told the truth! We will find out in the morning! Naara the sorcerer, disappointed, rushed into his hut. Page Twelve: Night came, almost total. From the village, the clan can no longer see the great portal! Rahan can go free! Freeing his aching fingers, the son of Crao released the links. And a moment later, he was in the darkness. He was going down the slope leading to the valley of the “Two-Teeth”. And what he had feared happened. The wind suddenly chased away the clouds, unmasking the moon! A clamor reached him. Look! The links are broken! Rahan lied! If, like most clans, that of Naara fears darkness, they will only track down Rahan at dawn! But Rahan must run, run! The son of fierce ages leaped between the bones piled up before him. Page Thirteen: He bypassed immense tusks or enormous rib cages, sometimes stumbling against the vines that crisscrossed the mammoths. However. The “Links of Truth” have denounced Rahan’s perfidy! On the hunt, brothers! Death To the liar! So the son of Crao was wrong, who supposed that this clan feared the night! Behind their leader and Naara-the-sorcerer, the hunters rushed towards the great portal. Rahan caught a glimpse of them, slipping nimbly between the bones. The “Two-teeth” valley is their territory! They will quickly find Rahan! He huddled behind a strange refuge of dislocated vertebrae. If Rahan moves, they will see him immediately! Page Fourteen: The hunters had spread out and were methodically exploring every shadowy corner. Rahan the liar knows how to hide! But we will find him! The son of Crao would certainly have been discovered if an unexpected event had not come to his aid. Oh! Luck is with Rahan! With long, painful trumpeting sounds, a large mammoth appeared at the bottom of the valley. Painfully making its way through the carcasses, this solitary male came to die where those of his species had died. Page Fifteen: Abandoning the manhunt, the hunters rushed towards the dying mastodon. This is even more ivory for their clan, and meat for many moons! Overcome by countless spear blows, the “Two-teeth” collapsed. A clamor of joy rose up in the valley. They no longer think about Rahan! Rahan can flee! The son of fierce ages was wrong once again. Leaving their clan to take care of carving up the enormous beast, the chief and Naara the sorcerer continued their search. The day will come soon! “Fire-hair” will not escape us! For a long time, Rahan slipped between the carcasses. The first lights of dawn were iridescent in the ridges of the valley. Page Sixteen: Exhausted by this long race, he took refuge inside a thorax. The clan is far away and Rahan is safe in this cage of bones! For the third time, the son of Crao made a mistake. He was going to doze off when. You are caught, "Fire-hair"! The “Links of Truth” have never deceived the Clan! Ohh! The leader stood at the entrance to the thorax, the sorcerer at the "Exit"! Rahan was indeed trapped! Since the links were broken, Rahan lied! So he must die! The Chief bent his bow. And the ivory-tipped arrow flew towards the son of fierce ages, entrapped by the bone bars of the cage. Page Seventeen: Instinctively, Rahan had protected his face and heart. And the arrow ended stuck in the thick straw bracelet!! Zlac! The leader did not have time to grab another arrow. The vertebra thrown by the son of Crao hit him right in the forehead! Ah! Naara the sorcerer took a step, a fine ivory weapon in his hand. Rahan hates killing "Those-who-walk-upright” but. When he has been forced to do it, he always triumphed! Drop that weapon, Naara! Let go of it if you value your life! The Sorcerer felt that he would not emerge victorious from single combat against this strong adversary. He wanted to flee. Page Eighteen: But in three leaps, the son of fierce ages caught up with him. Not so fast, wizard! Do not kill me! Do not kill me! Rahan will not kill you! But he is going to prove to you how stupid this "Links of Truth" test that you imposed on him is! While holding Naara, whom he had disarmed, Rahan cut off some fine vines. Do you say that the body of the man who never lies is light? We will see! When the clan chief came back to his senses, the sun was bathing the valley of the “Two teeth”. “Fire Hair” is missing! But oh! The hunters who were running joyfully after putting down the mammoth, stopped, looking the same way. Naara! Page Nineteen: Their sorcerer was suspended in the void, between two sides of the upper thorax, exactly as the man with the fiery hair had been at the great portal!! His voice reached them and they saw him on the slope of the valley, out of range of arrows. Do not release Naara, brothers!! If he never tells lies, the "Links of Truth" should hold him up until the sun goes down! Naara was pale. A vine suddenly gave way! Noo! No! Do not believe this! The second vine immediately broke and the sorcerer rolled on the bones. The leader and his men took a step back. Page Twenty: Rahan's ironic voice flowed through the valley. Naara's body must be very heavy with lies! He is forcing you to choose another wizard! Or deprive yourself of a wizard, which would be even better! Rahan hopes you understand that the "Links of Truth" test is stupid and cruel! “Those-who-walk-upright” must think before deciding that one of their number lied! They must provide proof! Naara, ashamed, came and threw his sorcerer's attributes at the chief's feet. Naara sincerely believed he had gifts. He was wrong! He only asks for one favor. To stay in the clan as a simple hunter! From the top of the ridge, the son of Crao saw this scene, in which he rejoiced. He contemplated the fantastic valley of the "Two-teeth" for a moment longer, then he headed off in the direction of the sun, where it was lingering, on other horizons. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

DESCRIPTION: The Matrix Comics is a collection of short comic book stories set in the fictional universe of the Matrix series, originally released as webcomics on the series' official website from 1999 to 2004. Most of the stories were published in two volumes (printed in 2003 and 2004 respectively) by the Wachowski Brothers' company Burlyman Entertainment, along with three never released online. The comics' editor was Spencer Lamm. The Wachowski Brothers, the creators of the Matrix series, contributed one script to the project, "Bits and Pieces of Information", aspects of which were later included in the Animatrix short animated film "The Second Renaissance". This is the complete set of The Matrix web comics series 1 (Out of 3 total) collected from The Matrix website before it was closed down. [Team Nanban][TPB] http://www.facebook.com/pages/Team-Nanban-TPB/316529071742589

https://arxiv.org/pdf/1501.00007.pdf

Rahan. Episode Thirty Seven. The lagoon of dread. Hardly had the flamingos caught a glimpse of the man than they flew away en masse. Their cloud was reflected in the waters of the lagoon, pink like a cloud at sunset. The son of Crao, who had never seen birds of this color before, followed them for a moment in the sun. Then his gaze returned to this islet, which was in the heart of the lagoon and intrigued him so much. The wooden giant represents without doubt a god! Page Two: The large idol carved in a tree seemed to watch over and protect the lagoon. From the shore, Rahan could hardly make out the details. Rahan wants to know! He wants to know! He divined the sharks under the green waters. But his curiosity prevailed. He knew from experience that "Those-who-crawl-on-the-water" were rarely attacked when they kicked their legs very quickly. His hands and feet vigorously created a furrow of foam. And the sharks that escorted him for a moment, indeed, did not dare to approach it. He was a hundred fathoms from the island when. Something came up from the depths that hit his belly. A yellowish thing. Like a monster without head or tail! Page Three: He leaned back and. Ha-ha-ha! Rahan was afraid of a bamboo! The "Thing" that had just surfaced was just a huge piece of bamboo! Bamboos do not grow at the bottom of water! And this one was cut by men! Here and there traces of ax blows were visible. The son of Crao's curiosity grew again. He swooped into the depths of the lagoon, scattering a shoal of multicolored fish. And Suddenly. Oh! These unfortunates were condemned to a terrible death! Skeletons lay between the seaweed, others were stretched out in the hollow of bamboos weighted down with large stones. Page Four: Further on, two half shells of bamboo were still held together by a vine. Rahan understands! All these men were locked in similar trunks. But time and water wear out the vines! And the lids of these cages rise to the surface! This is what just happened to Rahan! The men of these shores must be very cruel to send their enemies to the "Territory of Shadows" in this way! Overwhelmed by his macabre discovery, the son of Crao returned to the surface and a large shark appeared. The shark, this time, was not worried by foam and noisy eddies! He was in his silent kingdom! Page Five: Knowing that the monster would grab his legs if he reached the surface immediately, Rahan stretched out. He knew too that the shark had to turn around to seize its prey. Clutching his ivory knife, he watched for this moment. And. Rahan's claw is as fearsome as your teeth! The blade opened the white belly of the great shark. Whose convulsions immediately resulted in an effluvia of blood. The son of the fierce ages regained the surface. Ra-ha-ha! He had waited so long for his breath that the first breath of fresh air seeped like fire into his lungs. Page Six: A moment later, he climbed onto the island. The great idol, who held a spear to his measure, seemed to observe him like an intruder. Rahan knows that "Those-who-walk-upright" sometimes represent the gods they worship. What god do you embody, wooden man? Oh! Wood Skins! The son of Crao was not alone on the island! Crocodiles were crawling heavily towards him! Lend your lance to Rahan, man of wood! Resting on sculpted hands, the spear was long and heavy. Back, “Skin-of-wood”! Search for some other prey than Rahan! The flint penetrated the scaly side of one of the saurian. Page Seven: Then Rahan knocked again. The flanks. The gaping jaws. The flanks again. Armed with the long spear, he pushed the beasts back into the lagoon. Ra-ha-ha! His cry of victory thundered when the saurians, unable to approach him, abandoned the islet. Rahan thanks you, wooden man! He respectfully rested the long spear on the sculpted hands when. Shouts resounded on the other side of the lagoon! "Those-who-walk-upright" do not seem to appreciate the arrival of Rahan on their territory! In the distance, on the shore, men shouted. The enemy has just profaned the god "Kaha"!! Sacrilege! Sacrilege! Page Eight: Sacrilege! Profaner! Sacrilege! The cries ran over the lagoon, reaching the son of Crao. Who suddenly saw a surprising thing. The men were pushing boats into the water. Boats like he had never seen. They were made of huge bamboo split in two, like the aquatic sarcophagi he had discovered. The hard walls of the flutes formed the bow and stern of the skiffs. Sacrilege! Profanation! From all sides boats were approaching. Surrounding on the islet the defiler of the god "Kaha"! I am Rahan! The son of Crao, he shouted! Rahan is not an enemy! Page Nine: Capture him alive! Kahouli will decide his fate! The men did not throw the bone harpoons they wielded. But Rahan plunged between two boats, and their hands tried to seize him. No! You will not capture Rahan! A boat rolled over on itself, and threw its occupants into the water. And Rahan was already swimming towards the shore, faster than he had ever done. He outpaced the flotilla that had chased him. And he rushed on the beach, towards the nearby forest. Rahan does not want to be sent to the "Kingdom of the Dead" in a bamboo cage! Page Ten: He heard the clamors redouble behind him, and he plunged under the strangest cover that there was. Everywhere, gigantic bamboos rise towards the sky. It is this forest that provides the lagoon clan with boats and cages! The more the son of Crao fled, the more he felt overcome by a malaise. All these bamboos looked alike and, without reference points, he had the sensation of going around in circles. And indeed, suddenly. Our forest has its secrets that "Rahan-the-sacrilegious" ignores!! He has retraced his steps! The men of the lagoon were surging from all sides. In front. Behind. On his sides! Page Eleven: We saw you take the weapon of the god "Kaha"! Kahouli will say that she hardly deserves this desecration! All resistance was useless. The circle of bone harpoons closed on the son of Crao. Who, shortly after, was taken to a village whose huts, too, were made of bamboo. The nearby lagoon scintillated under the setting lights. We bring you "Rahan-the-sacrilegious", Kahouli! We caught him desecrating the islet of "Kaha"! The leader of the lagoon clan wore a white beard. Rahan thought he saw his father "Crao-the-wise" again. Rahan has done nothing profane! Rahan respects the customs of his brothers! Page Twelve: The men murmured, hostile. But Kahouli nodded slowly. Yet you have dared to set foot on the islet of "Kaha"! It is true. But if Rahan was a profaner, "Kaha" would not have allowed him to take his spear to hunt the “Skins of Wood"! And also Rahan returned his spear to "Kaha"! Look at it! The great idol in the distance seemed to watch over the glowing expanse of the lagoon. Kahouli still nodded. I believe you. If you had the spirit of evil in your head, "Kaha" would have punished you himself! Yes I believe you! The murmurs ceased, and the chief addressed the clan. Rahan is not an enemy! Give him food and drink! Let him be admitted as a brother! Page Thirteen: The son of the fierce ages knew, in this village, a night as he loved them. A night of friendship. A brotherly night. He who knew a thousand things had to recount many adventures before daring to ask the question that haunted him. Rahan would like to know who are these men lying at the bottom of the lagoon, in the bamboo cages? Kahouli's response stunned him. They are the best of ours! Our clan respects courage and "Kaha" is the god of bravery. This is why we entrust to the waters of the lagoon those who have died following a courageous act. "Kaha" watches over their last sleep! Rahan, who had dreamed of horrible torture. Apparently, on the contrary, the bamboo sarcophagi were immersed with the bravest, most respected hunters of the clan! Page Fourteen: Dawn was breaking over the lagoon when cries of terror threw the men out of the huts. A few children appeared, chased by a huge buffalo. Lay down! Down! Quickly! And don't move!! The children obeyed and the horned monster, disdaining these suddenly motionless prey, charged the nearest standing group. Old Kahouli, who was bravely trying to intervene, was thrown against a hut. Everyone down! Lay down! Everyone! The son of Crao knew the reactions of "Longhorns". Indifference for the inert hunter, fury against the one that moved! Page Fifteen: It was a strange sight. The big buffalo, irritated, went from one group to another. He charged with low horns as soon as one of the men lying down made a move! And it lasted. And Continued. The son of the fierce ages, exasperated, watched the comings and goings of the buffalo. It is high time to end it, "Long Horns"!! He suddenly straightened up, cutlass in hand! Ra-ha-ha! Man and beast charged each other. The sun reflected the same burst of fire on the brandished blade and the lowered horns. Page Sixteen: The shock was terrifying. Rahan felt his cutlass plunge into his chest at the same time as he felt his chest crack. He rolled on the ground while the monster continued his path for an instant. To go on to collapse at the other end of the village. Rahan has killed the "Longhorn"! Rahan is the bravest of the Brave! Kahouli- the-chef brandished the precious ivory knife. Rahan gave his life to save ours! The son of Crao lay in the bright sun. And they spoke of him like those who are on their way to reach the "Territory-of-Shadows". Rahan deserves the eternal protection of "Kaha"! Page Seventeen: Some men were already bringing a bamboo sarcophagus respectfully. Others brought heavy stones. A moment later, Rahan was lying in the boat. Like all proud and brave hunters. He will go to the "Territory-of-shadows" with his weapon!! Kahouli solemnly placed the ivory knife on the son of Crao's chest. The sarcophagus was closed with a strap of strong creepers. Immerse it with our brothers!! May "Kaha" watch over him until the end of time! The sun haloed the head of the god "Kaha" when the skiffs carrying the bamboo coffin arrived in the middle of the lagoon. Page Eighteen: As soon as the sarcophagus was submerged, the water seeped between the disjointed bamboos. And Rahan came to his senses! A thin streak of light, but darkness. A shaft of light, piercing the darkness. He could not move. Where was he? He felt a slight shock when the coffin hit the bottom, in the middle of the Aquatic Graveyard. In a flash he realized. They, they believed Rahan dead! They honor me as a brave man! But Rahan is still alive!! Rahan does not want to die! The son of Crao, suffocating, flexed his muscles to free himself. And that was when he felt, on his stomach, his ivory knife!! Page Nineteen: Chlak! Chlack! There was only one thought left. The line of light. The daylight. Life! Slipped between the bamboos, the ivory blade cut a vine. The "Sarcophagus" half-opened. Letting in more light, more daylight. The knife cut again. The lid of the coffin, released, rose to the surface. The son of Crao on the threshold of unconsciousness, accompanied it towards the day, towards life. Ra-ha-ha! It was not his cry of victory that he uttered, but the astonished gasp of one who would return from the other world. Exhausted, he saw the god "Kaha". Whose calm gaze fixed the "Lagoon-of-the-Brave." He heard the cries of joy rising from the shore. Page Twenty: Rahan returns from the "Territory-of-Shadows"! It is a miracle of "Kaha" brothers! Throughout his youthful adventure, the son of fierce ages had encountered hordes who worshiped the sun or the moon. Others would worship the gods of the wind. Rain clouds or thunder. He, Rahan respected these beliefs. But he believed even more in "Those-who-walk-upright", of men, his brothers. That was why he let himself be brought back to the shore where the clan cheered for him. The dying sun struck the wooden eyelid of the great idol. One would have thought, at that moment, that "Kaha", the god of the lagoon of the brave, had given conspiratorial wink to the son of the fierce ages. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

Chapter Twenty Five. September4, 1993. Although I've been in Washington nearly a week now, this is the first opportunity I've had to write. After our hectic trip across the country we spent several hectic days getting two of our bombs planted. Then last night was the first uninterrupted night I've had alone with Katherine since I've been back. And tomorrow it's another bomb-planting mission. But tonight is for writing. Our trip here from California was like something from a zany movie. Even though all the events are still fresh in my mind, I can hardly believe they really happened. Conditions in this country have changed so much in the last nine weeks that it's as if we had used a time machine to step into an entirely different era-an era in which all the old rules for coping we spent a lifetime learning have been changed. Fortunately for us, everyone else seems just as bewildered by the changes as we are. I was surprised at the ease with which we were able to leave our enclave. The System's troops are all clumped together in just a few border areas along the major highways, with additional company- size groups stationed at roadblocks on the back roads. These back- road troops are doing practically no patrolling, and it is a simple and safe matter to bypass them-which accounts for the fact that so many White volunteers have been able to infiltrate into our area of California since July 4. We took an Army truck north to Bakersfield and then drove northeast another 20 miles, to within half a mile of a roadblock manned by Liberal troops. We could see them and they could see us, but they didn't try to give us any trouble as we pulled off the main road onto a rough Forest Service trail. We were already in the foothills of the Sierra range. After about an hour of bouncing over the steep, barely passable mountain road, we pulled back onto the highway again - safely beyond the roadblock but now deep into System-controlled territory. We weren't especially concerned about running into any opposition in the mountains; we knew the largest concentration of System troops was at China Lake, on the other side of the Sierras, and we intended to turn north along Highway 39S before then. Our plan, had we met a supply truck heading for the roadblock back near Bakersfield, was simply to blast it off the narrow mountain highway before its occupants realized we were "the enemy. " All five of us kept our automatic rifles cocked and ready and we had two rocket launchers besides, but we met no other vehicles. We knew that, despite the unnatural absence of traffic in the mountains, we would certainly encounter heavy traffic when we reached 39S, the main north-south highway east of the mountains. Our reconnaissance patrols hadn't been able to give us anything but a very generalized picture of troop dispositions that far east, and we had no idea what to expect in the way of roadblocks or other controls on vehicular traffic. We did know that fewer than 10 per cent of the System troops in the border area at that time were Whites, however. The System was gradually regaining confidence in some of its White troops, but it was still avoiding using them near the border, where they might be tempted to come over to our side. The few White military personnel in the area, even though confirmed race-mixers, were regarded with suspicion and treated with the contempt they deserved by the Liberals. Our spies had reported several instances in which these White renegades had been humiliated and abused by their Liberal fellow soldiers. Considering this, we had decided that we would have a better chance as non-Whites of bluffing our way past any challengers. Accordingly, we had all applied a dark stain to our faces and hands and pinned Chicano-sounding nametags on our fatigue uniforms. We figured we could pass as mestizos-so long as we didn't run into any real Chicanos. For four days I was "Jesus Garcia." Our driver, "Corporal Rodriguez," played his role to the hilt, giving a left-handed clenched-fist salute and flashing a toothy grin whenever we passed an idle group of Liberal soldiers along the highway and on the two occasions we were stopped at checkpoints. We also kept a transistor radio tuned to a Mexican station blaring soulful Chicano music whenever we were within earshot of System troops. Once, when we needed to refuel, we were briefly tempted to pull in at a military gasoline depot, but the long line of waiting trucks and the groups of Liberals lounging about made us decide against the risk. We stopped instead at a roadside restaurant-curio shop- filling station in the shadow of Mt. Whitney. The place seemed deserted, so two of our men began filling our fuel tank at the gasoline pump, while I and the others ; headed for the restaurant to see if we could find any food to take along. We found four soldiers inside, quite drunk, sitting around a table cluttered with empty bottles and glasses. Three were Liberals and the fourth was White. "Anybody around here we can pay for gas and some food?" I asked. "No, man, just take what you want. We ran the honky owners out of here three days ago," one of the Liberals responded. "But not before we had some real fun with their daughter, eh?" the White exclaimed, grinning and nudging one of his companions. Perhaps it was the grim stare I gave him, or perhaps he suddenly noticed "Corporal Rodriguez's" very blue eyes, or- it may have been that the stain on our faces had become too streaked from perspiration; in any event, the White soldier suddenly stopped grinning and whispered something to the Liberals. At the same time he leaned back and reached for his rifle, which was resting against an adjacent table. Before he even touched his weapon, I pivoted my M16 off my shoulder and raked the group at the table with a blast of fire which sent them all sprawling to the floor, spurting blood. The three Liberals were quite obviously dead, but their White-renegade companion, though shot through the chest, raised himself to a sitting position and asked in a plaintive voice, "Hey, man, what the shit?" "Corporal Rodriguez" finished him off. He pulled his bayonet from his belt scabbard, seized the dying White by his hair, and hauled him off the floor, the point of the bayonet jammed under his chin. "You piece of race-mixing filth! Go join your Liberal 'brothers' ! " And with one, savage stroke "Rodriguez" practically decapitated him. Five miles further down the highway, at the intersection where we wanted to turn east, a Military Police jeep with two Liberals in it was blocking the side road. A third Liberal was directing traffic, waving all north-bound military vehicles on down the main highway. We ignored his signals and turned right, going far out on the shoulder to get around the jeep. The Liberal traffic controller blew his whistle furiously, and all three MP's gesticulated and waved their arms wildly at us, but our "Corporal Rodriguez" just grinned and gave his Liberal-power salute, shouted, "Siesta frijoe! Hasta la vista!" and a few other Spanish words which came into his head, pointed meaningfully down the road ahead, and stepped on the accelerator. We left the Liberals in a shower of dust and gravel. The Liberal with the whistle was still tooting and waving his arms as we went around the bend, and that was the last we saw of him. Apparently he and his companions did not think it worthwhile trying to follow us, but our three men hidden in the back of the truck kept their fingers on the triggers of their automatic rifles just in case. From there until we got to the outskirts of St. Louis we didn't run into any more concentrations of System troops. But we accomplished that only by avoiding the major highways and cities and sticking to secondary roads. We rattled and bounced across the mountains and deserts of California, Nevada, Utah, and Colorado, and then the plains of Kansas and the rolling hills of Missouri, for 75 hours straight, stopping only to refuel and relieve ourselves. While two of us rode in front and a third kept watch out the back of the truck, two of us at a time tried to sleep, but without much success.When we reached eastern Missouri we changed our tactics, for two reasons. First, we heard the radio broadcast of the bombing of Miami and Charleston and the Organization's ultimatum to the System. That made the time factor even more important than before; we couldn't afford any further delays from circuitous routes along back roads. Second, the danger of our being stopped by the authorities between St. Louis and Washington decreased sharply as all hell broke loose in the country, giving us the opportunity to adopt a new ploy. We had been monitoring both the civilian broadcast band and the military communications bands during the trip, and we were about 80 miles west of St. Louis when a special announcer cut into the afternoon weather report. The previous day, at noon, a nuclear bomb had been detonated without warning in Miami Beach, the announcer said, killing an estimated 60,000 people and causing enormous damage. A second nuclear bomb had been detonated outside Charleston, South Carolina, just four hours ago, but casualty and damage reports were not yet available. Both bombings were the work of the Organization, said the announcer, and he would now read the text of an Organization ultimatum. I jotted down the ultimatum almost word for word on a scrap of paper as it came over the truck radio, and this is very nearly it: "To the President and the Congress of the United States and the commanders of all U.S. armed forces, we, the Revolutionary Command of the Organization, issue the following demands and warning: "First, cease immediately all buildup of military forces in eastern California and adjacent areas and abandon all plans for an invasion of the liberated zone of California. "Second, abandon all plans for a nuclear strike against the liberated zone of California or any portion of it. "Third, make known to the people of the United States, through all the communications channels at your disposal, these demands and this warning."If you have failed to comply with any one of our three demands by noon tomorrow, August 27, we will detonate a second nuclear device in some population center of the United States, just as we detonated one in the Miami, Florida, area a few minutes ago. We will continue to detonate one nuclear device every 12 hours thereafter until you have complied. "We furthermore warn you that if you make any surprise, hostile move against the liberated zone of California, we will immediately detonate more than 500 nuclear devices which have already been hidden in key target areas throughout the United States. More than 40 of these devices are now located in the New York City area. In addition, we will immediately use all the nuclear missiles still available to us to destroy the Jewish presence in Palestine. "Finally, we warn you that, in any event, we intend to liberate, first, the entire United States and then the remainder of this planet. When we have done so we will liquidate all the enemies of our people, including in particular all White persons who have consciously aided those enemies. "We are aware now, and we will continue to be aware, of your most confidential plans and of every order you receive from your Jewish masters. Abandon your race-treason now, or abandon all hope for yourselves when you fall into the hands of the people you have betrayed." (Note to the reader: Turner's version of the Organization's ultimatum is essentially correct, except for a few minor errors in wording and his omission of one sentence from the next-to-last paragraph. The full and exact text of the ultimatum is in chapter nine of Professor Anderson's definitive History of the Great Revolution.) We had pulled off the road when the special announcer came on, and it took us a few minutes to gather our thoughts and decide what to do. We had not really expected things to develop so rapidly. Those fellows who took the warheads to Miami and Charleston must have either left a day or two ahead of us or they must have really been burning up the highways to get there so soon. Despite our non-stop driving, we felt like a bunch of shirkers. We knew the fat was really in the fire; we were in the middle of a nuclear civil war, and within the next few days the fate of the planet would be decided for all time. Now it was either the Jews or the White race, and everyone knew the game was for keeps. I still haven't figured out all the details of our strategy leading up to the ultimatum. I don't know why, for example, Miami and Charleston were chosen as initial targets-although I've heard a rumor that the rich Jews who were evacuated from New York were being temporarily housed in the Charleston area, and Miami, of course, already had a superabundance of Jews. But why not take out the New York City area instead, with its two-and-a-half megakikes? Perhaps our bombs weren't really in place yet in New York, despite what our ultimatum said. And I'm also not sure why our ultimatum took the particular form it did: all stick and no carrot. Perhaps it was deliberately intended to stampede the cattle-which, indeed, it has. Or perhaps there were some under-the-table communications between Revolutionary Command and the System's military leaders which determined the form of the ultimatum. In any event, it has had the effect of splitting the System right down the middle. The Jews and nearly all the politicians are in one faction, and nearly all the military leaders are in another faction. The Jewish faction is demanding the immediate nuclear annihilation of California, regardless of the consequences. The accursed goyim have raised their hands against the Chosen People and must be destroyed at any cost. The military faction, on the other hand, is in favor of a temporary truce, while an effort is made to find our "500 (a forgivable exaggeration) nuclear devices" and disarm them. After hearing that broadcast our only thought was to get our deadly cargo to Washington as soon as possible. We knew everyone would be off balance for a while as a result of what had just happened, and we decided to take advantage of the general confusion by converting our truck into an emergency vehicle and barrelling straight down the highway toward our destination. We didn't have a siren, but we did have flashing red lights front and rear, and we completed the conversion a few minutes later by stopping in a rural hardware store and buying some cans of spray paint which, with some hastily improvised stencils made from torn newspapers, we used to paint Red Cross symbols in the appropriate places on our truck. After that, we made Washington in less than 20 hours, despite the chaotic conditions on the highways. We sped along shoulders to get past stalled traffic, drove on the wrong side of the road with horn blaring and lights flashing, bounced over culverts and open fields to get around blocked intersections, and generally ignored all traffic controllers, bluffing our way through more than a dozen checkpoints. Our first bomb went into Fort Belvoir, the big Army base just south of Washington where I was locked up for more than a year. We had to wait two maddening days to make contact with our inside man there so we could arrange to get the bomb inside the base and hidden in the right area. "Rodriguez" went over the fence with the bomb strapped on his back. I received a radio signal from him the next day, confirming the successful completion of his mission. Meanwhile, the rest of us planted a second bomb in the District of Columbia, where it will be able to take out a couple of hundred thousand Liberals when it goes, not to mention a few government agencies and a critical portion of the capital's transportation network. I didn't have my final orders on the third bomb until this afternoon. That will go into the Silver Spring area north of here - the center of the Maryland-suburban Jewish community. The fourth one is intended for the Pentagon, but security is so tight there I still haven't figured a way to get it anywhere near the place. I must confess that my mind has not been exclusively on my work since I've been back here. Katherine and I have stolen time from our Organization responsibilities to be together. Neither of us had realized how much we have come to mean to each other until we were separated again this summer, so soon after my escape from prison. In the month we were together this spring, before I was sent to Texas and then to Colorado and finally to California, we became as close as any two people can possibly be. Things have been hard for Katherine and the others here while I was gone, especially since July 4. They have been under enormous pressure from two directions. The Organization has been pushing them without mercy to continually step up their level of activism, while the danger of being caught by the political police has grown worse every week. The System is resorting to new methods in its fight against us: massive, house-to-house searches of multi-block areas; astronomical rewards for informers; much tighter controls on all civilian movement. In many other parts of the country these repressive measures have been more sporadic, and they have broken down entirely in those areas where the System has not been able to maintain public order-especially since the panic caused by the bombings of Miami and Charleston. But around Washington the System still has things in a very tight grip, and it's tough. Late this afternoon Katherine and I slipped out of the shop for a couple of hours and went for a walk. We strolled by several groups of soldiers in sandbagged machine-gun emplacements outside office buildings; on past the smoke-blackened rubble of a suburban subway station in which Katherine herself had planted a dynamite bomb just two weeks ago; through a park-like area where a loudspeaker mounted high on a lamppost was blaring out exhortations to "all right-thinking citizens" to immediately report to the political police the slightest manifestation of racism on the part of their neighbors or co-workers; and out onto one of the main highway bridges across the Potomac River from Virginia to the District of Columbia. There was no traffic on the bridge because it ended abruptly 50 yards from the Virginia shore, in a tangle of shattered concrete and twisted reinforcing rods. The Organization had blown it up in July, and no effort had yet been made to repair it. It was fairly quiet there at the end of the bridge, with only the screaming of police sirens in the distance and the occasional clatter of a police helicopter swooping overhead. We talked, we embraced, and we silently surveyed the scene around us as the sun went down. We and our companions have certainly made an influence on the world in the last few months-both on the suburban world of ordinary White people on the Virginia side of the bridge and on the System's world of bustling government offices on the other side. And yet the System is all too evidently still alive all around us. What a contrast with the situation in California! Katherine was full of questions about what life is like in the liberated zone, and I tried to tell her as best I could, but I am afraid that mere words are inadequate for expressing the difference between the way I felt in California and the way I feel here. It is more a spiritual thing than merely a difference in the political and social environments. As we stood there talking above the swirling eddies at the end of the bridge, our bodies pressed together, the world growing dark around us, a group of young Liberals came out onto the other stump of the bridge, from the Washington side. They began horsing around in typical Liberal fashion, a couple of them urinating into the river. Finally one of them spotted us, and they all began shouting and making obscene gestures. For me, at least, that accentuated the difference which I could not find words to express. https://rumble.com/v3dqkh8-index-to-the-turner-diaries.html

In this copy of his novel titled “I will fear no Evil”, Robert Heinlein uses 2,914 hyphens, 567 three dot ellipses, 1752 pairs of brackets 133 sentences ending with commas, and the three M mumble of M, m, m 41 times. And, of course, 924 exclamation marks! As always, the attempt here to reformat the novel into Machine Readable English is only a partial success. He had been ill for over a year, and this was one of his last works. One. The room was old-fashioned, 1980 baroque, but it was wide, long, high, and luxurious. Near simulated view windows stood an automated hospital bed. It looked out of place but was largely concealed by a magnificent Chinese screen. Forty feet from it a boardroom table also failed to match the decor. At the head of this table was a life-support wheelchair; wires and tubings ran from it to the bed. Near the wheelchair, at a mobile stenodesk crowded with directional mikes, voice typewriter, clock-calendar, controls, and the usual ancillaries, a young woman sat. She was beautiful. Her manner was that of the perfect unobtrusive secretary but she was dressed in a current exotic mode. “Half and Half”, right shoulder and breast and arm concealed in jet-black knit, left leg sheathed in a scarlet tight, panty-ruffle in both colors joining them, black sandal on the scarlet side, red sandal on her bare right foot. Her skin paint was patterned in the same scarlet and black. On the other side of the wheelchair was an older woman garbed in a nurse’s conventional white pantyhose and smock. She ignored everything but her dials and a patient in the chair. Seated around the table were a dozen-odd men, most of them in spectator-sports style affected by older executives. Cradled in the life-support chair was a very old man. Except for restless eyes, he looked like a poor job of embalming. No cosmetic help had been used to soften the brutal fact of his decrepitude. “Ghoul,” he was saying softly to a man halfway down the table. “You’re a slavering ghoul, Parky me boy. Didn’t your father teach you that it is polite to wait for a man to stop kicking before you bury him? Or did you have a father? Erase that last, Eunice. Gentlemen, Mister Parkinson has moved that I be invited to resign as chairman of the board. Do I hear a second?” He waited, looking from face to face, then said, “Oh, come now! Who is letting you down, Parky? You, George?” “I had nothing to do with it.” “But you would love to vote ‘Aye.’ Motion fails for want of a second.” “I withdraw my motion.” “Too late, Parkinson. Erasures are made only by unanimous consent, implied or overt. One objection is enough, and I, Johann Sebastian Bach Smith, do so object … and that rule controls because I wrote it before you learned to read. “But”, Smith looked around at the others, ”I do have news. As you heard from Mister Teal, all our divisions are in satisfactory shape; Sea Ranches and General Textbooks are more than satisfactory, so this is a good time for me to retire.” Smith waited, then said, “You can close your mouths. Don’t look smug, Parky; I have more news for you. I stay on as chairman of the board but will no longer be chief executive. Our chief counsel, Mister Jake Salomon, becomes deputy chairman and, ” “Hold it, Johann. I am not going to manage this five-ring circus.” “Nobody said you would, Jake. But you can preside at board meetings when I’m not available. Is that too much to ask?” “Um, I suppose not.” “Thank you. I’m resigning as president of Smith Enterprises, and Mister Byram Teal becomes our president and chief executive officer, he’s doing the work; it’s time he got the title, and pay and stock options and all the perks and privileges and tax loopholes. No more than fair.” Parkinson said, “Now see here, Smith!” “Hold it, youngster. Don’t start a remark to me with ‘Now see here, ’ Address me as ‘Mister Smith’ or ‘Mister Chairman.’ What is your point?” Parkinson controlled himself, then said, “Very well, Mister Smith. I can’t accept this. Quite aside from promoting your assistant to the office of president in one jump, utterly unheard of!, if there is a change in management, I must be considered. I represent the second largest block of voting stock.” “I did consider you for president, Parky.” “You did?” “Yep. I thought about it … and snickered.” “Why, you, ” “Don’t say it, I might sue. What you forget is that my block has voting control. Now about your block By company policy anyone representing five percent or more of voting stock is automatically on the board even if nobody loves him and he suffers from spiritual bad breath. Which describes both you and me. “Or did describe you. Byram, what’s the late word on proxies and stock purchases?” “A full report, Mister Smith?” “No, just tell Mister Parkinson where he stands.” “Yes, sir. Mister Parkinson, you now control less than five percent of the voting stock.” Smith added sweetly, “So you’re fired, you young ghoul. Jake, call a special stockholders’ meeting, legal notice, all formalities, for the purpose of giving Parky a gold watch and kicking him out, and electing his successor. Further business? None. Meeting’s adjourned. Stick around, Jake. You, too, Eunice. And Byram, if you have anything on your mind.” Parkinson jumped to his feet. “Smith, you haven’t heard the last of this!” “Oh, no doubt,” the old man said sweetly. “Meantime my respects to your mother-in-law and tell her that Byram will go on making her rich even though I’ve fired you.” Parkinson left abruptly. Others started to leave. Smith said mildly, “Jake, how does a man get to be fifty years old without acquiring horse sense? Only smart thing that lad ever did was pick a rich mother-in-law. Yes, Hans?” “Johann,” Hans von Ritter said, leaning on the table and speaking directly to the chairman, “I did not like your treatment of Parkinson.” “Thanks. You’re honest with me to my face. Scarce these days.” “Removing him from the board is okay; he’s an obstructionist. But there was no need to humiliate him.” “I suppose not. One of my little pleasures, Hans. I don’t have many these days.” A Simplex footman rolled in, hung the vacated chairs on its rack, rolled out; von Ritter continued: “I have no intention of being treated that way. If you want nothing but Yes men on your board, let us note that I control much less than five percent of the voting stock. Do you want my resignation?” “Good God, no! I need you, Hans, and Byram will need you still more. I can’t use trained seals; a man has to have the guts to disagree with me, or he’s a waste of space. But when a man bucks me, I want him to do it intelligently. You do. You’ve forced me to change my mind several times, not easy, stubborn as I am. Now about this other, sit down. Eunice, whistle up that easy chair for Doctor von Ritter.” The chair approached; von Ritter waved it back, it retreated. “No, I haven’t time to be cajoled. What do you want?” He straightened up; the boardroom table folded its legs, turned on edge, and glided away through a slot in the wall. “Hans, I’ve surrounded myself with men who don’t like me, not a Yes man or trained seal among them. Even Byram, especially Byram, got his job by contradicting me and being right. Except when he’s been wrong and that’s why he needs men like you on the board. But Parkinson, I was entitled to clip him, publicly, because he called for my resignation, publicly. Nevertheless you are right, Hans; ‘tit for tat’ is childish. Twenty years ago, even ten, I would never have humiliated a man. If a man operates by reflex, as most do instead of using their noggins, humiliating him forces him to try to get even. I know better. But I’m getting senile, as we all know.” Von Ritter said nothing. Smith went on, “Will you stick?, and help keep Byram steady?” “Uh … I’ll stick. As long as you behave yourself.” He turned to leave. “Fair enough. Hans? Will you dance at my wake?” Von Ritter looked back and grinned. “I’d be delighted!” “Thought so. Thanks, Hans. Good bye.” Smith said to Byram Teal, “Anything, son?” “Assistant Attorney General coming from Washington tomorrow to talk to you about our Machine Tools Division buying control of Homecrafts, Ltd. I think, ” “To talk to you. If you can’t handle him, I picked the wrong man. What else?” “At Sea Ranch number five we lost a man at the fiftyfathom line. Shark.” “Married?” “No, sir. Nor dependent parents.” “Well, do the pretty thing, whatever it is. You have those videospools of me, the ones that actor fellow dubbed the sincere voice onto. When we lose one of our own, we can’t have the public thinking we don’t give a hoot.” Jake Salomon added, “Especially when we don’t.” Smith clucked at him. “Jake, do you have a way to look into my heart? It’s our policy to be lavish with death benefits, plus the little things that mean so much.” “, and look so good. Johann, you don’t have a heart, just dials and machinery. Furthermore you never did have.” Smith smiled. “Jake, for you we’ll make an exception. When you die, we’ll try not to notice. No flowers, not even the customary black-bordered page in our house organs.” “You won’t have anything to say about it, Johann. I’ll outlive you twenty years.” “Going to dance at my wake?” “I don’t dance,” the lawyer answered, “but you tempt me to learn.” “Don’t bother, I’ll outlive you. Want to bet? Say a million to your favorite tax deduction? No, I can’t bet; I need your help to stay alive. Byram, check with me tomorrow. Nurse, leave us; I want to talk with my lawyer.” “No, sir. Doctor Garcia wants a close watch on you at all times.” Smith looked thoughtful. “Miss Bedpan, I acquired my speech habits before the Supreme Court took up writing dirty words on sidewalks. But I will try to use words plain enough for you to understand. I am your employer. I pay your wages. This is my home. I told you to get out. That’s an order.” The nurse looked stubborn, said nothing. Smith sighed. “Jake, I’m getting old, I forget that they follow their own rules. Will you locate Doctor Garcia, somewhere in the house, and find out how you and I can have a private conference in spite of this too faithful watchdog?” Shortly Doctor Garcia arrived, looked over dials and patient, conceded that telemetering would do for the time being. “Miss MacIntosh, shift to the remote displays.” “Yes, Doctor. Will you send for a nurse to relieve me? I want to quit this assignment.” “Now, Nurse, ” “Just a moment, Doctor,” Smith put in. “Miss MacIntosh, I apologize for calling you, ‘Miss Bedpan.’ Childish of me, another sign of increasing senility. But, Doctor, if she must leave , I hope she won’t, bill me for a thousand-dollar bonus for her. Her attention to duty has been perfect … despite many instances of unreasonable behavior on my part.” “Uh … see me outside, Nurse.” When doctor and nurse had left Salomon said dryly, “Johann, you are senile only when it suits you.” Smith chuckled. “I do take advantage of age and illness. What other weapons have I left?” “Money.” “Ah, yes. Without money I wouldn’t be alive. But I am childishly bad-tempered these days. You could chalk it up to the fact that a man who has always been active feels frustrated by being imprisoned. But it’s simpler to call it senility … since God and my doctor know that my body is senile.” “I call it stinking bad temper, Johann, not senility, since you can control it when you want to. Don’t use it on me; I won’t stand for it.” Smith chuckled. “Never, Jake; I need you. Even more than I need Eunice, though she’s ever so much prettier than you. How about it, Eunice? Has my behavior been bad lately?” His secretary shrugged, producing complex secondary motions pleasant to see. “You’re pretty stinky at times, Boss. But I’ve learned to ignore it.” “You see, Jake? If Eunice refused to put up with it, as you do, I’d be the sweetest boss in the land. As it is, I use her as a safety valve.” Salomon said, “Eunice, any time you get fed up with this vile-tempered old wreck you can work for me, at the same salary or higher.” “Eunice, your salary just doubled!” “Thank you, Boss,” she said promptly. “I’ve recorded it. And the time. I’ll notify Accounting.” Smith cackled. “See why I keep her? Don’t try to outbid me, you old goat, you don’t have enough chips.” “Senile,” Salomon growled. “Speaking of money, whom do you want to put into Parkinson’s slot?” “No rush, he was a blank file. Do you have a candidate, Jake?” “No. Although after this last little charade it occurs to me that Eunice might be a good bet.” Eunice looked startled, then dropped all expression. Smith looked thoughtful. “It had not occurred to me. But it might be a perfect solution. Eunice, would you be willing to be a director of the senior corporation?” Eunice flipped her machine to “NOT RECORDING.” “You’re both making fun of me! Stop it.” “My dear,” Smith said gently, “you know I don’t joke about money. As for Jake, it is the only subject sacred to him, he sold his daughter and his grandmother down to Rio.” “Not my daughter,” Salomon objected. “Just Grandmother … and the old girl didn’t fetch much. But it gave us a spare bedroom.” “But, Boss, I don’t know anything about running a business!” “You wouldn’t have to. Directors don’t manage, they set policy. But you do know more about running it than most of our directors; you’ve been on the inside for years. Plus Almost inside during the time you were my secretary’s secretary before Missus Bierman retired. But here are advantages I see in what may have been a playful suggestion on Jake’s part. You are already an officer of the corporation as Special Assistant Secretary assigned to record for the board, and I made you that, you’ll both remember, to shut up Parkinson when he bellyached about my secretary being present during an executive session. You’ll go on being that, and my personal secretary, too; can’t spare you, while becoming a director. No conflict, you’ll simply vote as well as recording. Now we come to the key question: Are you willing to vote the way Jake votes?” She looked solemn. “You wish me to, sir?” “Or the way I do if I’m present, which comes to the same thing. Think back and you’ll see that Jake and I have always voted the same way on basic policy, settling it ahead of time, while wrangling and voting against each other on things that don’t matter. Read the old minutes, you’ll spot it.” “I noticed it long ago,” she said simply, “but didn’t think it was my place to comment.” “Jake, she’s our new director. One more point, my dear: If it turns out that we need your spot, will you resign? You won’t lose by it.” “Of course, sir. I don’t have to be paid to agree to that.” “You still won’t lose by it. I feel better. Eunice, I’ve had to turn management over to Teal; I’ll be turning policy over to Jake, you know the shape I’m in. I want Jake to have as many sure votes backing him as possible. Oh, we can always fire directors … but it is best not to have to do so, a fact von Ritter rubbed my nose in. Okay, you’re a director. We’ll formalize it at that stockholders’ meeting. Welcome to the ranks of the Establishment. Instead of a wage slave, you have sold out and are now a counterrevolutionary, warmongering, rat-fink, fascist dog. How does it feel?” “Not ‘dog,’ ” Eunice objected. “The rest is lovely but ‘dog’ is the wrong sex; I’m female. A bitch.” “Eunice, I not only do not use such words with ladies around, you know that I do not care to hear them from ladies.” “Can a ‘rat-fink fascist’ be a lady? Boss, I learned that word in kindergarten. Nobody minds it today.” “I learned it out behind the barn and let’s keep it there.” Salomon growled. “I don’t have time to listen to amateur lexicologists. Is the conference over?” “What? Not at all! Now comes the top-secret part, the reason I sent the nurse out. So gather ye round.” “Johann, before you talk secrets, let me ask one question. Does that bed have a mike on it? Your chair may be bugged, too.” “Eh?” the old man looked thoughtful. “I used a call button … until they started standing a heel-and-toe watch on me.” “Seven to two you’re bugged. Eunice my dear, can you trace the circuits and make sure?” “Uh … I doubt it. The circuitry isn’t much like my stenodesk. But I’ll look.” Eunice left her desk, studied the console on the back of the wheelchair. “These two dials almost certainly have mikes hooked to them; they’re respiration and heartbeat. But they don’t show voices as my voice does not make the needles jiggle. Filtered out, I suppose. “But”, she looked thoughtful, ”voice could be pulled off either circuit ahead of a filter. I do something like that, in reverse, whenever I record with a high background db. I don’t know what these dials do. Darn it, I might spot a voice circuit … but I could never be sure that there was not one. Or two. Or three. I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry, dear,” the lawyer said soothingly. “There hasn’t been real privacy in this country since the middle of the twentieth century, why, I could phone a man I know of and have you photographed in your bath and you would never know it.” “Really? What a dreadful idea. How much does this person charge for such a job?” “Plenty. Depends on difficulty and how much chance he runs of being prosecuted. Never less than a couple of thousand and then up like a kite. But he can do it.” “Well!” Eunice looked thoughtful, then smiled. “Mister Salomon, if you ever decide that you must have such a picture of me, phone me for a competitive bid. My husband has an excellent Chinese camera and I would rather have him photograph me in my bath than some stranger.” “Order, please,” Smith said mildly. “Eunice, if you want to sell skin pictures to that old lecher, do it on your own time. I don’t know anything about these gadgets but I know how to solve this. Eunice, go out to where they telemeter me, I think it’s next door in what used to be my upstairs lounge. You’ll find Miss MacIntosh there. Hang around three minutes. I’ll wait two minutes; then I’ll call out: ‘Miss Maclntosh! Is Missus Branca there?’ If you hear me, we’ll know she’s snooping. If you don’t, come back at the end of three minutes.” “Yes, sir. Do I give Miss MacIntosh any reason for this?” “Give the old battle-ax any stall you like. I simply want to know if she is eavesdropping.” “Yes, sir.” Eunice started to leave the room. She pressed the door switch just as its buzzer sounded. The door snapped aside, revealing Miss Macintosh, who jumped in surprise. The nurse recovered and said bleakly, to Mister Smith, “May I come in for a moment?” “Certainly.” “Thank you, sir.” The nurse went to the bed, pulled its screen aside, touched four switches on its console, replaced the screen. Then she planted herself in front of her patient and said, “Now you have complete privacy, so far as my equipment is concerned. Sir.” “Thank you.” “I am not supposed to cut the voice monitors except on Doctor’s orders. But you had privacy anyhow. I am as bound to respect a patient’s privacy as a doctor is, I never listen to sickroom conversation. I don’t even hear it! Sir.” “Get your feathers down. If you weren’t listening, how did you know we were discussing the matter?” “Oh! Because my name was mentioned. Hearing my name triggers me to listen. It’s a conditioned reflex. Though I don’t suppose you believe me?” “On the contrary, I do. Nurse, please switch on whatever you switched off. Then bear in mind that I must talk privately … and I’ll remember not to mention your name. But I’m glad to know that I can reach you so promptly. To a man in my condition that is a comfort.” “Uh, very well, sir.” “And I want to thank you for putting up with my quirks. And bad temper.” She almost smiled. “Oh, you’re not so difficult, sir. I once put in two years in an N.P. hospital.” Smith looked startled, then grinned. “Touche! Was that where you acquired your hatred for bedpans?” “It was indeed! Now if you will excuse me, sir, ” When she was gone, Salomon said, “You really think she won’t listen?” “Of course she will, she can’t help it, she’s already triggered and will be trying too hard not to listen. But she’s proud, Jake, and I would rather depend on pride than gadgetry. Okay, I’m getting tired, so here it is in a lump. I want to buy a body. A young one.” Eunice Branca barely showed reaction; Jake Salomon’s features dropped into the mask he used for poker and district attorneys. Presently Eunice said, “Am I to record, sir?” “No. Oh, hell, yes. Tell that sewing machine to make one copy for each of us and wipe the tape. File mine in my destruct file; file yours in your destruct file, and, Jake, hide your copy in the file you use to outwit the Infernal Revenue Service.” “I’ll file it in the still safer place I use for guilty clients. Johann, anything you say to me is privileged but I am bound to point out that the Canons forbid me to advise a client in how to break the law, or to permit a client to discuss such intention. As for Eunice, anything you say to her or in her presence is not privileged.” “Oh, come off it, you old shyster; you’ve advised me in how to break the law twice a week for years. As for Eunice, nobody can get anything out of her short of all-out brainwash.” “I didn’t say I always followed the Canons; I merely told you what they called for. I won’t deny that my professional ethics have a little stretch in them, but I won’t be party to anything smelling of bodysnatching, kidnapping, or congress with slavery. Any self-respecting prostitute, meaning me, has limits.” “Spare me the sermon, Jake; what I want is both moral and ethical. I need your help to see that all of it is legal, utterly legal, can’t cut corners on this!, and practical.” “I hope so.” “I know so. I said I wanted to buy a body, legally. That rules out bodysnatching, kidnapping, and slavery. I want to make a legal purchase.” “You can’t.” “Why not? Take this body,” Smith said, pointing to his chest, “it’s not worth much even as manure; nevertheless I can will it to a medical school. You know I can, you okayed it.” “Oh. Let’s get our terms straight. In the United States there can be no chattel ownership of a human being. Thirteenth Amendment. Therefore your body is not your property because you can’t sell it. But a cadaver is property, usually of the estate of the deceased … although a cadaver is not often treated the way other chattels are treated. But it is indeed property. If you want to buy a cadaver, it can be arranged, but who were you calling a ghoul earlier?” “What is a cadaver, Jake?” “Eh? A dead body, usually of a human. So says Webster. The legal definition is more complicated but comes to the same thing.” “It’s that ‘more complicated’ aspect I’m getting at. Okay, once it is dead, it is property and maybe we can buy it. But what is ‘death,’ Jake, and when does it take place? Never mind Webster; what is the law?” “Oh. Law is what the Supreme Court says it is. Fortunately this point was nailed down in the seventies, ’Estate of Henry M. Parsons versus Rhode Island.’ For years, many centuries, a man was dead when his heart quit beating. Then for about a century he was dead when a licensed M.D. examined him for heart condition action and respiration and certified that he was dead, and sometimes that turned out grisly, as doctors do make mistakes. And then along came the first heart transplant and oh, mother, what a legal snarl that stirred up! “But the Parsons case settled it; a man is dead when all brain activity has stopped, permanently.” “And what does that mean?” Smith persisted. “The Court declined to define it. But in application, look, Johann, I’m a corporation lawyer, not a specialist in medical jurisprudence nor in forensic medicine, and I would have to research before I, ” “Okay, so you’re not God. You can revise your remarks later. What do you know now?” “When the exact moment of death is important, as it sometimes is in estate cases, as it often is in accident, manslaughter, and murder cases, as it always is in an organ, transplant case, some doctor determines that the brain has quit and isn’t going to start up again. They use various tests and talk about ‘irreversible coma’ and ‘complete absence of brain wave activity’ and ‘cortical damage beyond possibility of repair’ but it all comes down to some M.D. laying his reputation and license on the line to certify that this brain is dead and won’t come alive again. Heart and lungs are now irrelevant; they are classed with hands and feet and gonads and other parts that a man can do without or have replaced. It’s the brain that counts. Plus a doctor’s opinion about the brain. In transplant cases there are almost always at least two doctors in no way connected with the operation and probably a coroner as well. Not because the Supreme Court requires it, in fact only a few of the fifty-four states have legislated in re thanatotic requirements, but, ” “Just a moment, Mister Salomon, that odd word. My typewriter has placed a query after it.” Eunice kept her hand over the “Hold” light. “How did your typer spell it?” “T-H-A-N-A-T-O-T-I-C.” “Smart machine. It’s the technical adjective referring to death. From the Greek god Thanatos, Death.” “Half a second while I tell it so.” Eunice touched the “Memory” switch with her other hand, whispered briefly, then said, “It feels better if I reassure it at once. Go ahead.” She lifted her hand from the “Hold” light. “Eunice, are you under the impression that that machine is alive?” She blushed, then touched “Erase” and covered “Hold.” “No, Mister Salomon. But it does behave better with me than with any other operator. It can get downright sulky if it doesn’t like the way it is handled.” “I can testify to that,” Smith agreed. “If Eunice takes a day off, her relief had better fetch her own gadgets, or fall back on shorthand. Listen, dear, knock off the chatter. Talk with Jake about the care and feeding of machines some other time; great-grandfather wants to go to bed.” “Yes, sir.” She lifted her hand. “Johann, I was saying that in transplant cases the medical profession has set up tight rules or customs, both to protect themselves from criminal and civil actions and also, I am sure, to forestall restrictive legislation. They have to get that heart out while it’s still alive and nevertheless protect themselves from indictments for murder, cum multimillion-dollar damage suits. So they spread the responsibility thin and back each other up.” “Yes,” agreed Smith. “Jake, you haven’t told me a thing I didn’t know, but you have relieved my mind by confirming facts and law. Now I know it can be done. Okay, I want a healthy body between ages twenty and forty, still warm, heart still working and no other damage too difficult to repair … but with the brain legally dead, dead, dead. I want to buy that cadaver and have this brain, mine, transplanted into it.” Eunice held perfectly still. Jake blinked. “When do you want this body? Later today?” “Oh, next Wednesday ought to be soon enough. Garcia says he can keep me going” “I suggest later today. And get you a new brain at the same time that one has quit functioning.” “Knock it off, Jake; I’m serious. My body is falling to pieces. But my mind is clear and my memory isn’t bad, ask me yesterday’s closing prices on every stock we are interested in. I can still do logarithmic calculations without tables; I check myself every day. Because I know how far gone I am. Look at me, worth so many megabucks that it’s silly to count them. But with a body held together with Scotch tape and string, I ought to be in a museum. “Now all my life I’ve heard ‘You can’t take it with you.’ Well, eight months ago when they tied me down with all this undignified plumbing and wiring, having nothing better to do I started thinking about that old saw. I decided that, if I couldn’t take it with me, I wasn’t going to go!” “Humph! ‘You’ll go when the wagon comes.’ “ “Perhaps. But I’m going to spend as much as necessary of that silly stack of dollars to try to beat the game. Will you help?” “Johann, if you were talking about a routine heart transplant, I would say ‘Good luck and God bless you!’ But a brain transplant, have you any idea what that entails?” “No, and neither do you. But I know more about it than you do; I’ve had endless time to read up. No need to tell me that no successful transplant of a human brain has ever been made; I know it. No need to tell me that the Chinese have tried it several times and failed, although they have three basket cases still alive if my informants are correct.” “Do you want to be a basket case?” “No. But there are two chimpanzees climbing trees and eating bananas this very day, and each has the brain the other one started with.” “Oho! That Australian.” “Doctor Lindsay Boyle. He’s the surgeon I must have.” “Boyle. There was a scandal, wasn’t there? They ran him out of Australia.” “So they did, Jake. Ever hear of professional jealousy? Most neurosurgeons are wedded to the notion that a brain transplant is too complicated. But if you dig into it, you will find the same opinions expressed fifty years ago about heart transplants. If you ask neurosurgeons about those chimpanzees, the kindest thing any of them will say is that it’s a fake, even though there are motion pictures of both operations. Or they talk about the many failures Boyle had before he learned how. Jake, they hate him so much they ran him out of his home country when he was about to try it on a human being. Why, those bastards, excuse me, Eunice.” “My machine is instructed to spell that word as ‘scoundrel,’ Mister Smith.” “Thank you, Eunice.” “Where is he now, Johann?” “In Buenos Aires.” “Can you travel that far?” “Oh, no! Well, perhaps I could, in a plane big enough for these mechanical monstrosities they use to keep me alive. But first we need that body. And the best possible medical center for computer-assisted surgery. And a support team of surgeons. And all the rest. Say Johns Hopkins. Or Stanford Medical Center.” “I venture to say that neither one will permit this unfrocked surgeon to operate.” “Jake, Jake, of course they will. Don’t you know how to bribe a university?” “I’ve never tried it.” “You do it with really big chunks of money, openly, with an academic procession to give it dignity. But first you find out what they want, football stands, or a particle accelerator, or an endowed chair. But the key is plenty of money. From my point of view it is better to be alive and young again, and broke, than it is to be the richest corpse in Forest Lawn.” Smith smiled. “It would be exhilarating to be young, and broke. So don’t spare the shekels. “I know you can set it up for Boyle; it’s just a question of whom to bribe and how, in the words of Bill Gresham, a man I knew a long time ago: ‘Find out what he wants, he’ll geek!’ “But the toughest problem involves no bribery but simply a willingness to spend money. Locating that warm body. Jake, in this country over ninety thousand people per year are killed in traffic accidents alone, call it two hundred and fifty each day, and a lot of those victims die of skull injuries. A fair percentage are between twenty and forty years old and in good health aside from a broken skull and a ruined brain. The problem is to find one while the body is still alive, then keep it alive and rush it to surgery.” “With wives and relatives and cops and lawyers chasing along behind.” “Certainly. If money and organization weren’t used beforehand. Finders’ fees, call them something else. Life-support teams and copters equipped for them always standing by, near the worst concentrations of dangerous traffic. Contributions to highway patrol relief funds, thousands of release forms ready to sign, lavish payment to the estate of the deceased, oh, at least a million dollars. Oh, yes, nearly forgot, I’ve got an odd blood type and any transplant is more likely to take if they don’t have to fiddle with swapping blood. There are only about a million people in this country with blood matching mine. Not an impossible number when you cut it down still further by age span, twenty to forty, and good health. Call it three hundred thousand, tops. Jake, if we ran big newspaper ads and bought prime time on video, how many of those people could we flush out of the bushes? If we dangled a million dollars as bait? One megabuck in escrow with Chase Manhattan Bank for the estate of the accident victim whose body is used? With a retainer to any prospective donor and his spouse who will sign up in advance.” “Johann, I’m durned if I know. But I would hate to be married to a woman who could collect a million dollars by ‘accidentally’ hitting me in the head with a hammer.” “Details, Jake. Write it so that no one can murder and benefit by it, and suicide must be excluded, too; I don’t want blood on my hands. The real problem is to locate healthy young people who have my blood type, and feed their names and addresses into a computer.” “Excuse me, Mister Smith, but have you thought of consulting the National Rare Blood Club?” “Be darned! I am growing senile. No, I hadn’t, Eunice, and how do you happen to know about it?” “I’m a member, sir.” “Then you’re a donor, dear?” Smith sounded pleased and impressed. “Yes, sir. Type A-B-Negative.” “Be darned twice. Used to be a donor myself, until they told me I was too old, long before you were born. And your type, A-B-Negative.” “I thought you must be, sir, when you mentioned the number. So small. Only about a third of one percent of us in the population. My husband is A-B-Negative, too, and a donor. You see, well, I met Joe early one morning when we were both called to give blood to a newborn baby and its mother.” “Well, hooray for Joe Branca! I knew he was smart, he grabbed you, didn’t he? I had not known that he was an Angel of Mercy as well. Tell you what, dear, when you get home tonight, tell Joe that all he has to do is to dive into a dry swimming pool … and you’ll be not only the prettiest widow in town, but the richest.” “Boss, you have a nasty sense of humor. I wouldn’t swap Joe for any million dollars, money won’t keep you warm on a cold night.” “As I know to my sorrow, dear. Jake, can my will be broken?” “Any will can be broken. But I don’t think yours will be. I tried to build fail-safes into it.” “Suppose I make a new will along the same general lines but with some changes, would it stand up?” “No.” “Why not?” “You said it yourself. Senility. Any time a rich man dies at an advanced age with a new will anyone with an interest in breaking it, your granddaughters, I mean, will try to break it, alleging senility and undue influence. I think they would succeed.” “Darn. I want to put Eunice down for a million so she won’t be tempted to kill her A-B-Negative husband.” “Boss, you’re making fun of me again. Nasty fun.” “Eunice, I told you that I do not joke about money. How do we handle it, Jake? Since I’m too senile to make a will.” “Well, the simplest way would be an insurance policy with a paid-up single premium … which would cost, in view of your age and health, slightly more than a million, I surmise. But she would get it even if your will was broken.” “Mister Salomon, don’t listen to him!” “Johann, do you want that million to revert to you if by any long chance you outlive Eunice?” “Um … no, if it did, a judge might decide to look at the matter, and God himself doesn’t know what a judge will do these days. Make the Red Cross the residuary. No, make it the National Rare Blood Club.” “Very well.” “Get it paid up first thing in the morning. No, do it tonight; I may not live till morning. Get an underwriter, Jack Towers, maybe, get Jefferson Billings to open that pawnshop of his and get a certified check. Use my power of attorney, not your own money, or you might be stuck for it. Get the signature of a responsible officer of the insurance company; then you can go to bed.” “Yes, Great Spirit. I’ll vary that; I’m a better lawyer than you are. But the policy will be in force before night, with your money, not mine. Eunice, be careful not to kick those hoses and wires as you go out. But tomorrow you needn’t be careful, as long as you don’t get caught.” She sniffed. “You each have a nasty sense of humor! Boss, I’m going to erase this. I don’t want a million dollars. Not from Joe dying, not from you dying.” “If you don’t want it, Eunice,” her employer said gently, “You can step aside and let the Rare Blood Club have it.” “Uh … Mister Salomon, is that correct?” “Yes, Eunice. But money is nice to have, especially when you don’t have it. Your husband might be annoyed if you turned down a million dollars.” “Uh, ” Missus Branca shut up. “Take care of it, Jake. While thinking about how to buy a warm body. And how to get Boyle here and get him whatever permission he needs to do surgery in this country. And so forth. And tell, no, I’ll tell her. Miss MacIntosh!” “Yes, Mister Smith?” came a voice from the bed console. “Get your team in; I want to go to bed.” “Yes, sir. I’ll tell Doctor Garcia.” Jake stood up. “Good day, Johann. You’re a crazy fool.” “Probably. But I do have fun with my money.” “So you do. Eunice, may I run you home?” “Oh, no, sir, thank you. My Gadabout is in the basement.” “Eunice,” said her boss, “can’t you see that the old goat wants to take you home? So be gracious. One of my guards will take your Gadabout home.” “Uh … thank you, Mister Salomon. I accept. Get a good night’s sleep, Boss.” They started to leave. “Wait, Eunice,” Smith commanded. “Hold that pose. Jake, pipe those gams! Eunice, that’s obsolete slang meaning that you have pretty legs.” “So you have told me before, sir, and so my husband often tells me. Boss you’re a dirty old man.” He cackled. “So I am, my dear … and have been since I was six, I’m happy to say.” Two. Mister Salomon helped her into her cloak, rode down with her to the basement, waved his guards aside and handed her into his car. Shotgun locked them in, got in by driver-guard and locked that compartment. As she sat down Missus Branca said, “Oh, how big! Mister Salomon, I knew a Rolls was roomy, but I’ve never been in one before.” “A Rolls only by courtesy, my dear, body by Skoda, power plant by Imperial Atomics, then Rolls-Royce pretties it and backs it with their reputation and service. You should have seen a Rolls fifty years ago, before gasoline engines were outlawed. There was a dream car!” “This one is dreamy enough. Why, my little Gadabout would fit inside this compartment.” A voice from the ceiling said, “Orders, sir?” Mister Salomon touched a switch. “One moment, Rockford.” He lifted his hand. “Where do you live, Eunice? Or the coordinates of wherever you want to go?” “Oh. I’ll go home. North one one eight, west thirty-seven, then up to level nineteen, though I doubt that this enormous car will fit into the vehicle lift.” “If not, Rocky and his partner will escort you up the passenger lift and to your door.” “That’s nice. Joe doesn’t want me to ride passenger lifts by myself.” “Joe is right. So we’ll deliver you like a courier letter. Eunice, are you in a hurry?” “Me? Joe expects me when I get there, Mister Smith’s working hours being so irregular now. Today I’m quite early.” “Good.” Mister Salomon again touched the intercom switch. “Rockford, we’re going to kill some time. Uh, Missus Branca, what zone for those coordinates? Eighteen something?” “Nineteen-B, sir.” “Find a cruising circle near nineteen-B; I’ll give you coordinates later.” “Very good, sir.” Salomon went on to Eunice. “This compartment is soundproof unless I thumb this switch; they can talk to me but can’t hear us. Which is good as I want to discuss things with you and make phone calls about that insurance policy.” “Oh! Surely that was a joke?” “Joke, eh? Missus Branca, I have been working for Johann Smith for twenty-six years, the last fifteen with his affairs as my sole practice. Today he made me de-facto chairman of his industrial empire. Yet if I failed to carry out his orders about that insurance policy, tomorrow I would be out of a job.” “Oh, surely not! He depends on you.” “He depends on me as long as he can depend on me and not one minute longer. That policy must be written tonight. I thought you had quit fretting when you learned that you could step aside for the Rare Blood Club?” “Well, yes. Except that I’m afraid I might get greedy and take it. When the time comes.” “And why not? The Rare Blood Club has done nothing for him; you have done much.” “I’m well paid.” “Listen, you silly child, don’t be a silly child. He wanted you to have a million dollars in his will. And he wanted you to know it so that he could enjoy seeing your face. I pointed out that it is too late to change his will. Even this insurance gimmick is chancy if his natural heirs get a look at the books and discover it, which I shall try to prevent, as a judge might decide it was just a dodge, as it is, and require the insurance company to pay it to his estate. Which is where the Rare Blood Club comes in handy; they would probably fight it and win, if you cut them in for half. “But there are other ways. Suppose you knew nothing about this and were invited to the reading of his will and discovered that your deceased employer had bequeathed you a lifetime income ‘in grateful appreciation of long and faithful service.’ Would you turn it down?” “Uh, ” she said, and stopped. ” ‘Uh,’ ” he repeated. “Exactly ‘uh.’ Of course you wouldn’t turn it down. He’d be gone and you’d be out of a job and there would be no reason to refuse it. So, instead of a lump sum so big it embarrasses you, I’m going to write a policy that sets up a trust to pay you an annuity.” He paused to think. “A safe return, after taxes, on a trust is about four percent. What would you say to around seven hundred and fifty a week? Would that upset you?” “Well … no. I understand seven hundred and fifty dollars much better than I understand a million.” “The beauty of it is that we can use the principal to insure against inflation, and you can still leave that million, or more, to the Rare Blood Club when your own Black Camel kneels.” “Really? How wonderful! I never will understand high finance.” “That’s because most people think of money as something to pay the rent. But a money man thinks of money in terms of what he can do with it. Never mind, I’ll fix it so that all you need to do is spend it. I’ll use a Canadian insurance company and a Canadian bank, as each will be stuffy about letting a U.S. court look at its records. In case his granddaughters find out what I’ve done, I mean.” “Oh. Mister Salomon, shouldn’t this money go to them?” “Again, don’t be silly. They are harpies. Snapping turtles. And had nothing to do with making this money. Do you know anything about Johann’s family? Outlived three wives, and his fourth married him for his money and it cost him millions to get shut of her. His first wife gave him a son and died in doing so, then Johann’s son was killed trying to capture a worthless hill. Two more wives, two divorces, a daughter by each of those two wives resulting in a total of four granddaughters, and those ex-wives and their daughters are all dead, and their four carnivorous descendants have been waiting for Johann to die and sore at him because he hasn’t.” Salomon grinned. “They’re in for a shock. I wrote his will so as to give them small lifetime incomes, and chop them off with a minimal dollar if they contest. Now excuse me; I must make phone calls, then take you home and run over to Canada and nail this down.” “Yes, sir. Do you mind if I take off my cloak? It’s rather warm.’” “Want the cooling turned up?” “Only if you are too warm. But this cloak is heavier than it looks.” “I noticed it was heavy. Body armor?” “Yes, sir. I’m out by myself quite a lot.” “No wonder you’re too warm. Take it off. Take off anything you wish to.” She grinned at him. “I wonder if you are a dirty old man, too. For another million?” “Not a durned dime! Shut up, child, and let me phone.” “Yes, sir.” Missus Branca wiggled out of her cloak, then raised the leg rest on her side, stretched out, and relaxed. Such a strange day! … am I really going to be rich? … doesn’t seem real … well, I’m not going to spend a dime, or let Joe spend it, unless it’s safe in the bank … learned that the hard way first year we were married … some men understand money, such as Mister Salomon, or Boss, and some don’t, such as Joe … but as sweet a husband as a girl could wish … as long as I never again let him share a joint account … Dear Joe! … those are pretty ‘gams’ if you do say so as shouldn’t, you bitch … ‘Bitch, ’ … how quaint Boss is with his old-fashioned taboos … always necessary not to shock him, not too much, that is; Boss enjoys a slight flavor of shock, like a whiff of garlic … especially necessary not to annoy him with language everybody uses nowadays … Joe is good for a girl, never have to be careful around him … except about money, Wonder what Joe would think if he could see me locked in this luxurious vault with this old goat? … probably be amused but best not to tell him, dearie; men’s minds don’t work the way ours do, men are not logical … wrong to think of Mister Salomon as an ‘old goat’ though; he certainly has not acted like one … you had to reach for that provocative remark, didn’t you, dear? … just to see what he would say … and found out! … got squelched, Is he too old? … hell, no, dear, the way they hike ‘em up with hormones a man is never ‘too old’ until he’s too feeble to move … the way Boss is … not that Boss ever made the faintest pass even years back when he was still in fair shape … Did Boss really expect to regain his youth by transplanting his brain? … arms and legs and kidneys and even hearts, sure, sure, but a brain? … Salomon switched off the telephone. “Done,” he announced. “All but signing papers, which I’ll do in Toronto this evening.” “I’m sorry to be so much trouble, sir.” “My pleasure.” “I do appreciate it. And I must think about how to thank Boss, didn’t thank him today but didn’t think he meant it.” “Don’t thank him.” “Oh, but I must. But I don’t know how. How does one thank a man for a million dollars? And not seem insincere?” “Um! There are ways. But, in this case, don’t. My dear, you delighted Johann when you showed no trace of gratitude; I know him. Too many people have thanked him in the past … then figured him as an easy mark and tried to bleed him again. Then tried to knife him when he turned out not to be. So don’t thank him. Sweet talk he does not believe; he figures it’s always aimed at his money. I notice you’re spunky with him.” “I have to be, sir, or he tromps on me. He had me in tears a couple of times, years back, before I found out he wanted me to stand up to him.” “You see? The old tyrant is making bets with himself as to whether you’ll come trotting in tomorrow and lick his hand like a dog. So don’t even mention it. Tell me about yourself, Eunice, age, how long you’ve been married, and how often, number of children, childhood diseases, why you aren’t on video, what your husband does, how you got to be Johann’s secretary, number of arrests and for what, Or tell me to go to hell; you are entitled to privacy. But I would like to know you better; we are going to be working together from here on.” “I don’t mind answering”, (I’ll tell just want I want to tell!), ”but does this work both ways?” She stopped to let down the leg rest, straightened up. “Do I quiz you the same way?” He chuckled. “Certainly. I may take the Fifth. Or lie.” “I could lie, too, sir. But I don’t need to. I’m twenty-eight and married once and still am. No children, no children yet; I’m licensed for three. As for my job, well, I won a beauty contest at eighteen, the sort that offers a one-year contract making appearances around your home state, plus a video test with an option for a seven-year contract, ” “And they didn’t pick up your option. I’m astonished.” “Not that, sir. Instead I took stock of myself, and quit. Winning that state contest and then losing the national contest made me realize how many pretty girls there are. Too many. And some things I heard from them about what you have to go through to get into video and stay there… well, I didn’t want it that much. And went back to school and took an associate’s degree in secretarial electronics, with a minor in computer language and cybernetics, and went looking for a job.” (And I’m not going to tell you how I got through school!) “And eventually filled in as Missus Bierman’s secretary while her regular secretary had a baby … then she didn’t come back and I stayed on … and when Missus Bierman retired, Boss let me fill in. And kept me on. So here I am, a very lucky girl.” “A very smart girl. But I’m sure your looks had much to do with Johann’s decision to keep you on.” “I know they did,” she answered quietly. “But he would not have kept me had I not been able to do his work. I know how I look but I’m not conceited about it; appearance is a matter of heredity.” “So it is,” he agreed, “but there are impressive data to show that beautiful women are, on the average, more intelligent than homely ones.” “Oh, I don’t think so! Take Missus Bierman, downright homely. But she was terribly smart.” “I said ‘On the average,’” he repeated. “What is ‘Beauty’? A lady hippopotamus must look beautiful to her boyfriend, or we would run out of hippopotamuses, potami, in one generation. What we think of as ‘Physical beauty’ is almost certainly a tag for a complex of useful survival characteristics. Smartness, intelligence, among them. Do you think that a male hippopotamus would regard you as beautiful?” She giggled. “Not likely!” “You see? In reality you’re no prettier than a female hippopotamus; you are simply an inherited complex of survival characteristics useful to your species.” “I suppose so.” (Humph! Give me one opening and I’ll show you what I am.) “But since Johann, and I, are of your species, what that means to us is ‘Beauty.’ Which Johann has always appreciated.” “I know he does,” she said quietly. She straightened her scarlet-covered leg in full extension and looked at it. “I dress this way to amuse Boss. When I first went to work for Smith Enterprises I wore as little as the other girls in the outer offices, you know, skin paint and not much else. Then when I went to work for Missus Bierman I started dressing quite modestly because she did, covered up all over, I mean, like Nurse MacIntosh, not even a see-through. Uncomfortable. I went on dressing that way when Missus Bierman left. Until one morning I had only one such outfit, I wore disposables, cheaper than having them cleaned, and spilled coffee down the front and was caught with nothing to wear. “And no time to buy anything for I was more afraid of being late, you know how impatient Mister Smith is, than I was that he might disapprove of my dress. Or lack of it. So I gritted my teeth and got out an office-girl bikini and asked Joe to paint me and hurry it up! Joe’s an artist, did I say?” “I don’t believe so.” “He is. He does my skin painting, even styles my face. But I was late anyhow that morning as Joe really is an artist and refused to let it go with just spraying me the background color. The two-piece was white with assorted sizes of big blue polka dots … and Joe insisted on continuing the pattern all over me, with me cussing and telling him to hurry and him insisting on painting just one more big polka dot. I was so late that I cut through an Abandoned Area I ordinarily circled around.” “Eunice, you should never go into an Abandoned Area. God, God, child, even the police don’t risk it other than in a car as well armored as this one. You could be mugged, raped, and murdered and no one would ever know.” “Yes, sir. But I was scared of losing my job. I tried to explain to Boss why I was late, and he told me to shut up and go to work. Nevertheless he was unusually mellow that day. The next day I wore the sort of full cover-up I have been wearing, and he was downright mean all day. Mister Salomon, I don’t have to be slapped in the face with a wet fish; from then on I quit trying to look like a nun, and dressed and painted to enhance what I’ve got, as effectively as possible.” “It’s effective. But, dear, you should be more careful. It’s all very well to wear sexy clothes for Johann; that’s charity, the old wretch can’t get much pleasure out of life and is no threat to you, the shape he is in.” “He never was a threat, sir. In all the years I’ve worked for Mister Smith he has never so much as touched my hand. He just makes flattering remarks about each new getup, sometimes quite salty and then I sass him and threaten to tell my husband, which makes him cackle. All innocent as Sunday School.” “I’m sure it is. But you must be more careful going to and from work. I don’t mean just stay out of Abandoned Zones. Dressed the way you dress and looking as you do, you are in danger anywhere. Don’t you realize it? Doesn’t your husband know it?” “Oh. I’m careful, sir; I know what can happen, I see the news. But I’m not afraid. I’m carrying three unregistered illegal weapons, and know how to use them. Boss got them for me and had his gaurds train me.” “Um. As an officer of the Court I should report you. As a human being who knows what a deadly jungle this city is, I applaud your good sense. If you really do know how to use them. If you have the courage to use them promptly and effectively. If, having defended yourself, you’re smart enough to get away fast and say nothing to cops. That’s a lot of ‘ifs,’ dear.” “Truly, I’m not afraid. Uh, if you were my attorney, anything I told you would be privileged, would it not?” “Yes. Are you asking me to be your attorney?” “Uh … yes, sir.” “Very well, I am. Privileged. Go ahead.” “Well, one night I had to go out on a blood-donor call. By myself, Joe wasn’t home. Didn’t worry me, I’ve made donations at night many times and often alone. I keep my Gadabout in our flat and stay in it until I’m inside the hospital or whatever. But, Do you know that old, old hospital on the west side, Our Lady of Mercy?” “I’m afraid not.” “No matter. It’s old, built before the government gave up trying to guarantee safety in the streets. No vehicle lift, no indoor parking. Just a lot with a fence and a guard at the gate. Happened when I came out. This frog tried to hop me between the parked cars. Don’t know whether he was after my purse. Or me. Didn’t wait to find out, don’t even know if it was a man, could have been a woman, ” “Unlikely.” “As may be. Stun bomb in his face with my left hand as I zapped with my right and didn’t wait to see if he was dead. Buzzed out of there and straight home. Never told the police, never told Joe, never told anybody until just now.” But it took a triple dose of Narcotol to stop your shakes, didn’t it, dearie, oh, shut up, that’s not the point. “So you’re a brave girl and can shoot if you have to. But you are a silly girl, too, and very lucky. Um. Johann has an armored car much like this and two shifts of guards to go with it.” “Of course he has guards, sir, but I know nothing about his cars.” “He has a Rolls-Skoda. Eunice, we are no longer going to depend on how fast you are with weapons. You can sell your Gadabout or plant flowers in it; from here on you’ll have mobile guards and an armored car. Always.” Missus Branca looked startled. “But, Mister Salomon! Even with my new salary I couldn’t begin to, ” “Switch off, dear. You know that Johann will never again ride in a car. Chances are he will never leave that room. But he still owns his personal defense car; he still keeps a double crew, two drivers, two Shotguns, and maybe they run an errand once a week. Eating their heads off and playing pinochle the rest of the time. Tomorrow morning my car will pick you up; tomorrow afternoon your own car, Johann’s, will take you home. And will be on call for you at all other times, too.” “I’m not sure Boss is going to like this.” “Forget it. I’m going to chew him out for letting you take risks. If he gives me any back talk, he’ll find I have enough chips to hire you away from him. Be sensible, Eunice; this doesn’t cost him a dollar; it’s a business expense that he is already incurring. Change of subject. What do you think of his plans for this soi-disant ‘warm body’?” “Is a brain transplant possible? Or is he grabbing at a straw? I know he’s not happy tied down to all that horrid machinery, goodness. I’ve been combing the shops for the naughtiest styles I can find but it gets harder and harder to get a smile out of him. Is it practical, this scheme?” “That’s beside the point, dear; he’s ordered it and we are going to deliver. This Rare Blood Club, does it have all the A-B-Negatives?” “Heavens, no. The last club report showed less than four thousand A-B-Negs enrolled out of a nationwide probability of about million.” “Too bad. What do you think of his notion of page ads and prime time on video?” “It would cost a dreadful lot of money. But I suppose he can afford it.” “Certainly. But it stinks.” “Sir?” “Eunice, if this transplant is to take place, there must be no publicity. Do you remember the fuss when they started freezing people? No, you’re too young. It touched a bare nerve which set off loud howls, and the practice was very nearly prohibited, on the theory that, since most people can’t afford it, no one should be allowed to have it. The Peepul, bless ‘em, our country has at times been a democracy, an oligarchy, a dictatorship, a republic, a socialism, and mixtures of all of those, without changing its basic constitution, and now we are a defacto anarchy under an elected dictator even though we still have laws and legislatures and Congress. But through all of this that bare nerve has always been exposed: the idea that if everyone can’t have something, then no one should have it. So what will happen when one of the richest men in the country advertises that he wants to buy another man’s living body, just to save his own stinking, selfish life?” “I don’t think Boss is all that bad. If you make allowances for his illness, he’s rather sweet.” “Beside the point. That bare nerve will jump like an ulcerated tooth. Preachers will denounce him and bills will be submitted in legislatures and the A.M.A. will order its members to have nothing to with it and Congress might even pass a law against it. Oh, the Supreme Court would find such a law unconstitutional I think, but by then Johann would be long dead. So no publicity. Does the Rare Blood Club know who these other A-B-Negatives are who are not members?” “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” “We’ll check. I would hazard that at least eighty percent of the people in this country have had their blood typed at some time. Does blood type ever change?” “Oh, no, never. That’s why we rares, that’s what we call ourselves, are so in demand.” “Good. Almost all of the population who have been typed have the fact listed in computers somewhere, and with computers so interlinked today it is a matter of what questions to ask and how and where, and I don’t know how, but I know the firm to hire for it. We progress, my dear. I’ll get that started and off-load the details onto you, and then get other phases started and leave you to check on them while I go to South America and see this butcher Boyle. And, ” “Mister Salomon! Bad turf coming up.” Salomon thumbed his intercom. “Roger.” He added, “Damn them. Those two beauties like to go through Abandoned Areas. They hope somebody will shoot so that they will have legal excuse to shoot back. I’m sorry, my dear. With you aboard I should have given orders to stay out of A.A.s no matter what.” “It’s my fault,” Missus Branca said meekly. “I should have told you that it is almost impossible to circle near Nineteen-B without crossing a bad zone. I have to detour way around to reach Boss’s house. But we’re safe inside, are we not?” “Oh, yes. If we’re hit, this old tank has to be prettied up, that’s all. But I should not have to tell them. Rockford isn’t so bad; he’s just a Syndicate punk, an enforcer who took a fall. But Charlie, the one riding Shotgun, is mean. An XYZ. Committed his first murder at eleven. He, ” Steel shutters slid up around them and covered the bulletproof glass. “We must be entering the A.A.” Inside lights came on as shutters darkened windows. Missus Branca said, “You make it sound as if we were in more danger from your mobiles than we are from the bad zone.” He shook his head. “Not at all, my dear. Oh, I concede that any rational society would have liquidated them, but since we don’t have capital punishment I make use of their flaws. Both are on probation paroled to me, and they like their jobs. Plus some other safe, ” The rap-rap-rap! of an automatic weapon stitched the length of the car. In that closed space the din was ear-splitting. Missus Branca gasped and clutched at her host. A single explosion, still louder, went POUNGK! She buried her face in his shoulder, clung harder. “Got ‘im!” a voice yelped. The lights went out. “They got us?” she asked, her voice muffled by the ruffles of his shirt. “No. no.” He patted her and put his right arm firmly around her. “Charlie got them. Or thinks he did. That last was our turret gun. You’re safe, dear.” “But the lights went out.” “Sometimes happens. The concussion. I’ll find the switch for the emergency lights.” He started to take his arms from around her. “Oh, no! Just hold me, please, I don’t mind the dark. Feel safer in it, if you hold me.” “As you wish, my dear.” He settled himself more comfortably, and closer. Presently he said softly, “My goodness, what a snuggly baby you are.” “You’re pretty snuggly yourself … Mister Salomon.” “Can’t you say ‘Jake’? Try it.” “‘Jake.’ Yes, Jake. Your arms are so strong. How old are you, Jake?” “Seventy-one.” “I can’t believe it. You seem ever so much younger.” “Old enough to be your grandfather, little snuggle puppy. I simply look younger … in the dark. But one year into borrowed time according to the Bible.” “I won’t let you talk that way; you’re young! Let’s not talk at all, Jake. Dear Jake.” “Sweet Eunice.” Some minutes later the driver’s voice announced, “All clear, sir,” as the shutters started sliding down, and Missus Branca hastily disentangled herself from her host. She giggled nervously. “My goodness!” “Don’t fret. It’s one-way glass.” “That’s a comfort. Just the same, that light is like a dash of cold water.” “Um, yes. Breaks the mood. Just when I was feeling young.” “But you are young, Mister Salomon.” “Jake.” “‘Jake.’ Years don’t count, Jake. Goodness me, I got skin paint all over your shirt ruffles.” “Fair enough, I mussed your hair.” “My hair I can comb. But what will your wife say when she sees that shirt?” “She’ll ask why I didn’t take it off. Eunice dear, I have no wife. Years ago she turned me in on a newer model.” “A woman of poor tast

Foreword by Jason Bashura, Biodefense and Public Health. In March 2020, my friend Andrew G. Huff texted me and wanted to talk. He was seeking a letter of recommendation (LoR) to support his readmission to the US Army to help the looming domestic “fight” on what was evolving into the COVID-19 pandemic. An excerpt to my LoR (dated March 30, 2020) states: When Doctor Huff’s career progressed, I was amazed but not surprised by his work ethic and focus that he and his team were engaged in pertaining to Global Public Health research including, but not limited to, evaluating the impacts that worker absenteeism would have on the food supply in the midst of a pandemic. And the letter of recommendation concluded with: The depth and breadth of Andrew’s experience is evident in how he has applied his vast educational foundation. He has simultaneously developed expertise in supply chains, systems engineering, security, and public health, and I believe this overlap in skillset and knowledge will serve him well in this new role. I am thrilled to be able to recommend Doctor Huff for this opportunity, and I am humbled that he asked me to offer this letter of support. Knowing that Doctor Huff would be serving OUR country in this capacity to fight the COVID-19 Pandemic to me is the penultimate opportunity for him to display courage, leadership, experience, and progress in protecting the public’s health and well-being. Passionate. Tenacious. Fiercely loyal. Patriotic toourcountry, in every letter of the word. A forward, big picture thinker. A problem-solving, systems-based, public health, minded, and practically driven freethinker. Observant. Andrew Huff’s character traits and skill sets are unparalleled. From his early work with the University of Minnesota’s National Center for Food Protection and Defense (NCFPD, recently renamed to the Food Protection and Defense Institute) to his deterministic risk-based work with Sandia National Laboratories, to his academic and public health veterinarian driven pursuits with Michigan State University, to the opportunities that appeared to be promising with EcoHealth Alliance, and now in private enterprising small business, I’ve been fortunate to have been able to learn from, appreciate, observe, and recommend Andrew’s work and spirit to improve tomorrow, based on lessons learned yesterday. Fast forward nearly two years. Another text from Andrew, one that I’llneverforget, from Friday, November 5, 2021 at 9:27 a.m.: Good morning Jason. Have someone at the FBI that you can refer me to right now? It’s an emergency. Now, with good conscience, can any of you honestly say that’s how you want a conversation to begin? Unfortunately, that’s my first memory of the journey that my friend, Andrew Huff, and his family have been on for the last few months. Donald Rumsfeld once said, and I’veoftenrepeated in various iterations, among other interesting lines of thinking, “There are unknown unknowns.” Well, in my mind, now, “there are things that I cannot un-know.” I cannot “forget” the tribulations that Andrew and his family, and community where they live, had, have, and continue to endure since this “escapade” began. One of my initial responses back to him, after confirming that I’d made a few phone calls and gotten him the contacts that he needed thanks to sometrustedcolleagues, was asking about his wife and young son. The goosebumps that I get, even today as I write this, thinking about how she felt, and what their little guy willneverknow about until he’s able to read and understand the overt violations of not only their home and their civil liberties, but also theirworldas they know it. And why? Because Andrew Huff knew (and knows) too much. What ensued in the following couple of days not only gave me goosebumps, but also forced me to rethinkeverythingthat I’d read, heard, learned, and followed since December 2019 (when, as a public health guy, I was aware of what was going on and hoping it wasn’t going to be as bad as it could be). I had worked in local, county, state, and federal public health in various anti-terrorism capacities and public health preparedness, developing a myriad of “response plans” for everything from community-based smallpox mass vaccination to pandemic influenza readiness to anthrax point of distribution (PODs) to anti-viral distribution plans based on evolving guidance from the CDC’s public health emergency response teams. How could we have “seen” this coming and not done anything about it? Why was this research being conducted? Who was paying for it? Could itreallybe the biggest façade in the history of the world? Put yourself in Andrew’s position, imagine being surveilled by drones, tailed everywhere he went, and then to find out thattheywere in his house, violating his personal space tolistento who he was talking to, what he was saying, and when. Put yourself in his position, and open your mind to all he has to say in this book. CHAPTER One. Both Science and the US Government Are Broken. During the week of October 25, 2021, I decided to come forward as a material witness and whistleblower related to SARS-CoV-2. That week my popularity on LinkedIn and Twitter seemed to be taking off, as my followings on both platforms were rapidly increasing. Before the rapid increase, to say that I was bad at social media platforms was an understatement. Maybe it wasn’t so much that I was bad at social media, but that my personality and style often come across to others as being a jerk or being mean, even though that is not my intent. I must warn you; I will never win a Miss Congeniality contest. My directness is due to my desire to get to the point quickly so that we can get the work done and find answers. This is likely a left-over trait that I learned in the military, where there is no time or place for beating around the bush. When there is bad news to be delivered, or if you made a serious mistake, it is best to be honest, concise, and develop a solution rapidly. Then, equally as important as developing a solution, is quickly implementing the solution. Failing fast is the most effective way to move quickly. If you made a bad decision, then you can identify the failure and correct the issue. I am the soldier you want in your foxhole because I understand the battlefield. Over time, and as you age, your heuristics and schemas improve from being exposed to different situations, and you become better at predicting the most likely best solution. Consequently, over time you will become better at hypothesizing the best-case solution to a problem or finding the truth. By using this process, and having a healthy dose of skepticism, I discovered, and reveal in this book, the biggest scandal in the history of the United States. I am deeply saddened and angered by the truth, and I am terrified of the direction that our great nation is heading. This book aims to do what our leaders have failed to do: tell the truth. During the week of October 25, 2021, I reached out to both Alex Berenson and Doctor Bret Weinstein via email and through social media platforms, and I was able to arrange telephone calls with both. Alex and I had three or four long conversations where I really dished the dirt on EcoHealth Alliance. Alex seemed to lose interest or had bigger fish to fry after I told him about the Central Intelligence Agency’s (CIA) involvement with my former boss Doctor Peter Daszak, by Peter’s own admission. This was unfortunate because we did not have the opportunity to get to what I felt was the bigger story related to EcoHealth Alliance. Despite the conversation ending abruptly, I really enjoyed speaking with him, as he asked thoughtful, detailed, and astute questions. Since I can only presume that I am the first and only EcoHealth Alliance employee to come forward, Alex really was interested in the people that work there and their personalities, how I came to my conclusions and assessment of the organization (which changed and became increasingly negative over time). He is an excellent writer and journalist (difficult to find these days due to the suppression of the truth, and those that tell it, by the mainstream media). I look forward to the opportunity to hopefully meet him in person someday. Later that week, I had two of the most stimulating scientific discussions of my life with Doctor Bret Weinstein and Doctor Jan Jekielek. Shortly after those conversations, theEpoch Timespublished an article and infographic which stated that EcoHealth Alliance had been working with the CIA. During the nearly two-hour conversation, we discussed every single aspect of COVID-19. We discussed everything from the failure of the vaccines to how the leaky mRNA vaccines were selecting for increasingly virulent and potentially greater pathogenic strains of COVID. Meaning that through a process of natural selection via reproductive fitness (Darwinian Theory of Evolution) the SARS-CoV-2 virus was becoming more transmissible and less deadly. Simply, the virus would become more transmissible because when a person is vaccinated with a leaky mRNA vaccine, the strains that match the mRNA vaccine are blocked from reproducing, and the strains in the mRNA-vaccinated person’s body continue to replicate. Thus, the leaky mRNA vaccines cause the strains circulating within the vaccinated person’s body to spread to other people regardless of the other person’s vaccination status (either being vaccinated or unvaccinated). This is one of many reasons why the United States’ COVID-19 vaccination policy was flawed and was ultimately doomed. The mRNA vaccine platform stands for modified ribonucleic acid. However, calling the mRNA treatment developed to treat illness due to COVID-19 a vaccine is misleading. In fact, the COVID-19 vaccine is not a vaccine at all, but rather it is a gene therapy. During the time when this book was written in the spring of 2022, it was highly contentious to call the vaccine a gene therapy. Simply stating scientific facts like the COVID “vaccine” is ineffective or stating that the “vaccine” had side effects was reason enough to be banned from social media platforms like LinkedIn (a Microsoft company), Facebook, Twitter, or YouTube (a Google company). In fact, I was banned from both LinkedIn and Facebook in 2021 for somehow violating their terms of service for posting scientific facts. I only posted facts related to science and public health, and then placed my observations about the mRNA vaccines, associated mRNA vaccine side effects, COVID vaccine effectiveness, and the origin of COVID into the appropriate scientific context. What happened from 2019 to 2022 was quite astonishing: An outspoken minority of scientists was proven correct related to numerous issues related to COVID. From mRNA “vaccine” effectiveness to the laboratory origin of SARS-CoV-2, these scientists were proven correct. Another glaring example of the minority scientists being proven correct occurred at the World Health Summit in 2021. In 2021, the president of Bayer’s Pharmaceuticals Division, Stefan Oelrich, stated: Together with Bill and Melinda Gates we’re working very closely on family planning initiatives. We are really taking that leap [to drive innovation], us as a company, Bayer, in cell and gene therapies. Ultimately the mRNA vaccines are an example for that cell and gene therapy. I always like to say: if we had surveyed two years ago in the public, “would you be willing to take a gene or cell therapy and inject it into your body?”, we probably would have had a 95 percent refusal rate. This was astonishing because it confirmed several theories that have been labeled as conspiracies. First, that Bill and Melinda Gates were heavily involved with mRNA vaccine strategy and influencing policy. Second, that the mRNA platform is, in fact, a gene therapy. Third, that the tragedy and fear surrounding the COVID-19 pandemic were used to bring the mRNA platform to market, and, if not for the fear related to COVID, the mRNA platform would have not been accepted by the public. What was well-known by scientists and people watching the COVID story closely was now being stated publicly by one of the leading pharmaceutical company’s executives. While hearing these truths was great, they conveniently came a little too late for the people that were wrongly labeled as conspiracy theorists by US government employees like Doctor Anthony Fauci. The US government-sponsored Moderna and Pfizer “vaccine” trials acknowledged that their gene therapy technology had no impact on viral infection or transmission whatsoever, and that the mRNA gene therapy merely conveys to the recipient the ability to produce a spike protein endogenously by the introduction of a synthetic mRNA sequence into their body. The cited, scientifically dense, clinical trial documents from Moderna and Pfizer were not concise or easy for many people to comprehend, so most people did not know that the mRNA jabs were not tested for vaccine effectiveness against transmission. It became painfully clear to everyone when Pfizer executive Janine Small admitted on October 11, 2022 that the COVID vaccine was not tested for transmission. Operational definitions like how we define a vaccine are incredibly important and are critical to measuring progress, defining success, and making objective comparisons in science. Operational definitions are necessary for honest debate and finding the truth. Clearly, the mRNA platform is a gene therapy and is not a vaccine as promoted by the United States government and mainstream media, and the operational definition of what is a vaccine is being manipulated by US government officials and by the scientists that receive funding from these government agencies and officials. Obviously, there is a large incentive for people to engage in these types of behaviors. Since 2020, there have been numerous US government-funded, peer-reviewed scientific publications that have slowly attempted to erode and change the definition of what a vaccine is.These scientists have stated that reducing the severity of the illness is the primary goal of a vaccine, and this redefining of “vaccine” is complete nonsense. The most troubling of these recent publications are attempting to change how we frame the origin of COVID and the United States government’s response to the pandemic, and were authored by scientists that have significant conflicts of interest with both the origin of COVID and the SARS-CoV-2 mRNA gene therapy platform. The scientists that have received most of the attention are Doctor Ralph Baric, who is a professor at the University of North Carolina Chapel Hill, Doctor Peter Daszak, who is the president of the profitable non-profit organization EcoHealth Alliance, and Doctor Anthony Fauci, the director of a National Institute of Health (NIH) sub-agency, the National Institute of Allergens and Infectious Diseases (NIAID). The real question is: why are these prominent scientists attempting to redefine what constitutes a vaccine? The answer is simple: corruption. These corrupt scientists and government officials have been getting away with these types of behaviors for years. This is how corruption and the funding model and process in science works. First, identify and define the problem. Then, identify which publications and which coauthors will have the most impact on the public discourse. After the collaborators and target publication are identified, try to arrange a phone call with one of the target publication’s editors to obtain political buy-in before a manuscript is submitted. Then, socialize the idea with your peers and select peer reviewers that you know for a fact are on your side, support your reasoning, and support your conclusions. If possible, include coauthors from the project’s sponsors to help present a “diverse” yet unified front. Submit the manuscript to the publication and wait for reviews. Once the manuscript is accepted, have your coauthors and subordinates repeat the thesis of the article in other forms of media and other peer-reviewed journals. This is how scientific consensus and “fact” is established. No research is required. This is exactly how the definition of vaccines is being manipulated. This example is emblematic of how science has become corrupted with the support of US taxpayer funding. This example is representative of what is happening throughout science: corrupt scientists will do or say anything to maintain their funding. In the context of COVID, Doctors Baric, Daszak, and Fauci are attempting to avoid prison for what is discussed later in this book. In mid-December of 2019, I became aware of the infectious disease outbreak in Wuhan, China. Interestingly, I learned of it via nontraditional means. Typically, I receive emerging infectious disease notifications from a platform called ProMED, which is operated by the International Society for Infectious Diseases (ISID). The Program for Monitoring Emerging Diseases (ProMED) is: [A]n internet-based reporting system dedicated to the rapid global dissemination of information on outbreaks of infectious diseases and acute exposures to toxins that affect human health, including those in animals and in plants grown for food or animal feed. Electronic communications enable ProMED to provide up-to-date and reliable news about threats to human, animal, and plant health around the world as quickly as possible. This is the tool that most epidemiologists and public health officials use to receive notification that there are anomalous health events occurring. While working at EcoHealth Alliance, ISID and ProMED were subcontractors on one of my contracts. I had the great pleasure of working with the legendary Doctors Marjorie Pollack, Larry Madoff, and the late Jack Woodall. Doctor Woodall was an early pioneer, using the internet to rapidly collect and validate health surveillance information related to emerging health threats. Much to his credit, ProMED has been one of the most impactful health surveillance tools ever created. ProMED relies on infectious disease experts like Marjorie and Jack to identify, analyze, and request information from people physically located near the source of the event. If the people near the source of the event are compromised in some way, or are being censored by the government, then the health surveillance information, also known as the intelligence, collected can be easily manipulated in a variety of ways. When the health event occurred, where the event occurred, and the characteristics of who is affected can be presented in a manner to intentionally mislead or distort the facts. The first ProMED mail report related to COVID-19 occurred in late December of 2019. By this time, the COVID-19 pandemic had likely been ongoing for at least weeks, if not months. Despite ProMED’s past demonstrated utility and impact, it seems that the platform may not be as effective in places where speech or communications are restricted by the government. Also, the nature of how we communicate and share information has changed. Relying on experts to analyze cases and outbreaks is no longer required for some diseases, as machine learning has been successfully used to automate the analysis of infectious disease reporting in digital and written formats. In the intelligence community, the analysis of digital information to identify early warnings or precursors is also known as signal intelligence (SIGINT) or sometimes communication intelligence (COMINT), depending on the specific context.These are some of the types of technologies or platforms that I designed, built, and refined for an alphabet soup of US government agencies over a period of six years. Despite the technological advances in identifying infectious disease outbreaks, I first learned of the outbreak in Wuhan, China while cruising through a professional forum structured like Reddit. In mid-December 2019, one of the forum members claimed that he was from the region and that there was a wide-spread infectious disease outbreak occurring in Wuhan causing thousands of deaths. The claim immediately piqued my interest, and I decided to attempt to validate the claim. First, I checked ProMED, and there were no reports or requests for information (RFI) related to an infectious disease outbreak in Wuhan, China. Next, I thought of alternative ways to validate the outbreak information, and I recalled a method that I had learned in graduate school. During severe infectious disease outbreaks, bodies need to be rapidly disposed of for numerous health and sanitation reasons. The most common way of disposing of bodies in a dense urban area like Wuhan is cremation of the bodies. There is simply no place to bury the bodies quickly and moving the bodies out of the city creates new exposure risks and requires a new supply chain to be established. It is much easier, safer, and more efficient to burn the bodies. When human bodies are burned at crematoriums, they release large amounts of fine particulate matter into the air, which can be easily inhaled and caught in the lungs. Particulate matter (PM) comes in all sizes but two of the most common measured by institutions concerned with air quality and pollution are PM 2.5 and PM 10. The number after PM indicates the size of particle in micrometers, and high PM 2.5 and PM 10 concentrations in the air cause numerous respiratory diseases. For these reasons, PM 2.5 and PM 10 data are collected continuously for numerous large cities or places with air quality concerns globally. Often, these air pollutant data are loaded into and modeled by a type of software called a geographic information system (GIS) so that the dispersion and concentration of the particulate matter can be visualized with a plume dispersion model. You are probably familiar with Google Maps or Google Earth, and these are simple types of GIS platforms that are used for land navigation or simple spatial analyses, and the map layer can be overlaid with other objects or shapes to represent various phenomena like wildfire origins and smoke plumes in the western United States during fire season. Governments internationally, from small cities to large national organizations like the US and Chinese Environmental Protection Agencies, and from small private companies to large research-focused academic institutions collect PM 2.5 and PM 10 air pollution data. Many of these organizations provide the data for analysis in a GIS or provide an online GIS and plume modeling platform for PM of various sizes. Since Wuhan, China and eastern China in general have significant air pollution problems, obtaining PM data down to the city block level is not difficult, and many GIS and plume models already exist. So, in mid-December 2019, I analyzed the PM 2.5 data and created a map layer with pinpoints for the crematoriums in and around Wuhan, and I found that the crematoriums were operating in overdrive. I was shocked, and I immediately started contacting friends and colleagues in my inner circle to share the information that I had learned. In the back of my mind, I knew that EcoHealth Alliance had been performing gain of function work at the Wuhan Institute of Virology, but that fact alone was not enough to draw any conclusions as to the source or cause of the disease at the time. The thing that was most puzzling to me was why wasn’t the US government sounding the alarm to the public and taking actions to prepare and respond to this terrifying emerging infectious disease threat?! There have been times when governments have not been transparent about disasters with significant global health related consequences. Classic examples are when the USSR attempted to hide a biological laboratory leak in 1977 that resulted in the re-emergence of the H1N1 pandemic flu strain which killed 700,000 people globallyand the explosion and meltdown of the Number 4 nuclear reactor in Chernobyl, Ukraine that resulted in radioactive fallout being spread across Europe and western Asia, which caused an estimated 200,000 to 985,000 latent deaths due to various types of radiation exposures to the population and environment. It turns out that SARS-CoV-2, the agent that causes COVID-19, will be added to that list, as will China and my home country the United States of America. CHAPTER Two. The Long Path to Enlightenment. I am making some rather bold claims in this book, and numerous people, including Doctor Peter Daszak, president at EcoHealth Alliance, have claimed that I am “lying about everything.” I am not lying about anything. Doctor Daszak is a liar, and I will prove it in this book. I feel that communicating my past is important because I prefer to be up-front and transparent about who and what I am, and I am not a person who glosses over my failures. Those failures are important in shaping the person that I have become, and there is no better way to learn than via failures. In 1995, my father and I took a trip to Colorado where we made it a point to visit the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. At the time, I was 5’8” and had my eyes set on becoming a fighter pilot. In 1999, I grew six inches in a year to just over 6’4”, and my dreams of being a fighter pilot were dashed. I didn’t complete high school for a myriad of reasons. I had made the decision to complete all my core courses by the end of tenth grade, I had passed all the necessary high school graduation tests and had performed well on the ACT exams. At the end of tenth grade, all my core competency courses in history, science, math, and English had been completed. The only courses that I had left to complete were elective courses, and I was completely bored with high school. I enrolled and participated in just enough high school coursework to stay active in athletic programs and the social life at school. At the age of sixteen, I had my sights set on college and wanted to leave the K-12 public education system as it spent most of its resources directed at the lowest common denominator of students. Later in life, I learned that a non-trivial number of people that obtain PhDs had similar feelings and conflicts with the public education system. I wanted to be enrolled in a program called the Post-Secondary Education Option, but my administrator did not believe that I would make it through college and would not approve of me attending college, even though I’d already been accepted to several programs. So, I spent most of my time skipping classes, reading in the library, and focusing on part-time work and athletics. In the year 2000, I decided to attend Saint Cloud State University (SCSU) in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. The decision was driven by the fact that some of my best friends at the time were attending SCSU and the tuition and cost of living were quite reasonable. Tuition my freshman year was only $2,784 per year, and my half of the rent was only $200 per month. At the time, Saint Cloud State had a reputation as a party school. Back then, I wasn’t seeking the party atmosphere, but I was not attempting to avoid it either. It seemed at this party school that every night, except Tuesdays and Wednesdays, there was an excuse to drink heavily. Most freshmen drank and flunked their way out of college, never to be seen again on campus. I later learned in life that this is true at most universities regardless of their perceived status as a party school. I had decided to major in finance and economics, and like most freshmen at SCSU, I developed what I eventually determined was a drinking problem during my freshmen year. I drank essentially every Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I also smoked two packs of cigarettes per week on average, which were quite affordable at only three dollars per pack in the early 2000s in Minnesota. As I observed my friends at school begin to flunk out my freshmen year, I decided to take things more seriously. I was spending way too much time and effort on chasing the opposite sex and drinking. In early September 2001, my roommates and I were walking on a beautiful sunny fall day to class across campus. We were joking around and making small talk, when a hysterical woman our age ran up behind us and exclaimed that an airplane had just hit the World Trade Center around 8 a.m. Central time. My roommates and I didn’t think much of it and, in my mind, I instantly thought of the building that was struck with a Cessna flown by a deranged man that was upset with the Internal Revenue Service over his taxes. As the young woman ran past us, we snickered about how crazy she was. As we approached the center of campus, it was eerily quiet, and people were jogging into buildings and were huddling around the latest 1990s bulky and heavy flat screen television technology. As my roommates and I split up to go to different buildings, I had about forty minutes to burn before my first class of the day and decided to walk into the Atwood Memorial Center. I approached one of the televisions and the building was packed full of people huddled around the brand-new HD televisions. The student hall was so quiet that you could hear the light static from a person walking across the carpet forty feet away. As I walked up to the television and began to watch the smoldering World Trade Center tower, a second passenger jet came into the frame and struck the other tower, bursting into flames. As the tower was struck, two young women took off crying and ran out of the student center. I began to call and text friends, and the cell phone providers’ networks were overloaded and many of the attempted calls and text messages failed to connect. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and hearing and decided to go home as classes were beginning to be canceled. I eventually connected with my roommates over the next thirty minutes, and we walked backed to our car. During the brief walk, we discussed what was now obvious: the United States was under attack, and we were entering a new period of war. The previous year, I had met a close friend at one of the designated party houses near campus jokingly named The Ritz. The Ritz reeked of booze and cleaning solvents and was the kind of place where shoes were required to protect yourself from the filth. This new friend was wild, daring, obnoxious, boisterous, and brilliant. For this book, I will call him “Harry.” Harry was an infantryman in the Minnesota Army National Guard, which had a rich military history. The Minnesota National Guard participated in several battles throughout the Civil War.In 1861, they were heavily engaged at the First Battle of Bull Run and the Battle of Ball’s Bluff. In May 1862, the Minnesota National Guard became part of the First Brigade, Second Division, Second Corps of the Army of the Potomac. As a part of this Corps, the Minnesota National Guard participated in the Peninsula Campaign, the Seven Days Battle, and Antietam in Maryland where they sustained heavy losses. These battles paled in comparison to the fighting which occurred at Gettysburg, where the First Minnesota was crucial to the future success of the Union Army. During this second day of fighting at Gettysburg, troops of the Minnesota Army National Guard charged the Confederates, securing the Federals’ position on Cemetery Ridge, which was essential to winning the battle. During the Battle of Gettysburg, the Minnesota Infantry secured Virginia’s Confederate battle flag, and the flag is on display at the Minnesota State Capital Building. The Minnesota National Guard was called to action for both World War I and World War II, where units served globally in most theaters and campaigns, but would not see action again until activated to serve in Operation Joint Forge in Bosnia and Herzegovina and Operation Joint Guardian in Kosovo. Immediately after September 11, Harry and I spent increasingly more time together, and I often asked him questions about serving in the military. I also enrolled in the Army Reserve Officer Training Corp (ROTC) program at SCSU and began physical training and coursework to become an officer. Many of my new friends in Army ROTC were also serving in the Army Reserves or the Army National Guard, which was highly recommended by the ROTC cadre. While the news cycle was dominated by Al Qaeda terrorists and the counterattack of the terrorists’ home base in Afghanistan authorized by President George W. Bush’s signing of the use of force, I was debating whether I should join the fight. In ROTC, I was exposed to people working in almost every branch of the military, and I decided that if I enlisted in the army, that I wanted to be with my friend Harry and do what I thought was the most brave and difficult job possible, to be an infantryman. In early 2002, I was introduced to Harry’s Army National Guard recruiter, and I decided to enlist as an infantryman. In summer 2002, I had filled out all the paperwork and signed the contracts to enlist in the Minnesota Army National Guard as an 11C (pronounced “eleven Charlie”), an indirect fire infantryman.These recruits go through the same infantry basic training school in Fort Benning, Georgia but are split apart from the rest of the company a few weeks from the end of infantry training to receive advanced training in the mortar weapons platforms. In August 2002, I completed my medical evaluation and the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery (ASVAB), where I tested very well and had very high general technical (GT) scores. GT scores are used by the military to determine if an individual has the aptitude for various occupations in the military. Based on my high scores, the army officer in charge at the military entrance and processing station at Fort Snelling pulled me aside into his office and tried his best to encourage me to switch occupations into aviation or medical, which I politely declined. I wanted the tough job and wanted to serve with my friends. Later that day I was sworn into the military as an infantryman. Upon being sworn in I was ordered to report to my readiness NCO (non-commissioned officer) at the Headquarters Company Detachment of theI-I94th Armor Battalion as soon as reasonably possible. What makes the Amy National Guard different is that you can begin training with your unit before you complete basic training. This can be a huge advantage to National Guard soldiers entering the military. After reporting to the readiness NCO, I was provided with the annual drill schedule, selected basic training dates for May 2003, and was issued all my equipment and uniforms at my armory located in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. At ROTC, I had already learned the basics of being a soldier: Army traditions, values, land navigation, movement, marching, small unit tactics, basic rifle skills and marksmanship, command structure, and operational planning. In my guard unit, I was being taught practical skills and was assigned mostly low-level tasks as a private. Guarding ammunition and weapons systems, preparing ammunition, radio communications, and a healthy amount of cleaning and maintenance of vehicles, weapons, and facilities. During my first full drill in September 2002, I spent the day with both the scout platoon and the mortar platoon preparing ammunition for crew-served weapons training and testing. The first two days were quite boring, but on the last day both platoons had completed training and testing on several machine gun platforms: the M60 (7.62 mm), 240B (7.62mm), M2 (.50 caliber), and the SAW (5.56mm). The NCO in charge at the firing range communicated that we had two extra pallets of ammunition that had to be expended and that the M60s were to be destroyed; decommissioned and replaced by the 240B. At the end of National Guard drill weekend, everyone is typically exhausted as the soldiers must complete a month’s worth of active-duty training in a period of only two to four days. Typically, the command gets little sleep discussing the operation and completing administrative duties, and the soldiers have duties non-stop from 4 a.m. to 11 p.m., if everything goes according to plan. This meant that the higher-ranking soldiers were not in any mood for more training. Since I was the only green soldier who had not been to basic training, I was “asked” if I wanted to shoot and receive training on these weapons systems from the most well-seasoned and disciplined NCOs in my unit. This became one of the most valuable and exciting training days of my life. I had the opportunity to receive one-on-one training, and fire through tens of thousands of rounds on a pop-up range. I was quickly taught how to clear jams and double feeds on the crew-served weapons. Especially on the M60s as the frequency with which these machine guns jammed was part of the reason that they were being phased out of the military. I learned to fire a six to eight rough burst of fire precisely and reliably into the target, learned how to walk rounds below and into the target, and perform volley fires with a team of machine gunners to maintain a constant rate of suppressing fire during reloads, jams, or tactical movements. At the end of our training, we fired so many rounds through the M60s in succession that the barrels became so hot that they glowed, became translucent, and began to sag, effectively damaging the M60s beyond repair. Between August and May 2003, I continued with my course work at SCSU, and my grades were improving across the board. By the time I attended basic training in the summer of 2003, I had completed most of the training that I would later be taught and had received advanced training in numerous areas like radio communications, night vision and vehicle operations, crew-served weapons like the Mark-19 grenade launcher, and mounted land navigation. I began collecting every army field or technical manual that I could get my hands on and began reading them all. I was reading instruction manuals on demolition, leadership, tactics, and even field sanitation. In May 2003, I moved all my personal items into temporary storage and shipped off to basic training. The National Guard is different than active duty in one substantial way: I trained on all the individual and crew-served weapons before attending basic training. This is a huge advantage and makes basic training very boring. Basic training was exactly what I expected. The only personal problem that I had with infantry school was that I was bored. The classes were being taught at a very basic level, and I understood why the drill instructors needed to spend so much time instructing the recruits on basic tasks. The tasks were dangerous, and small mistakes by anyone in the unit could get everyone killed, even in training. There were a few other National Guardsmen in my company that were also in ROTC, and we all commiserated together. Numerous people washed out from infantry school, and by my estimation, 20 percent of the recruits were eliminated due to behavior problems, mental health issues, physical injuries, or performance issues. I sustained stress fractures in my feet, a common problem at infantry basic training, which luckily healed a few weeks before graduation. By the end of training, it was impressive to see how much we all improved as individuals and as a team. By the end of infantry school, you realize that the entire process is a mental game through which you must persevere and excel. The thing that I learned is how unprepared mentally I was before my enlistment. Near the end of training, I realized that the drill instructors had one of the most difficult missions in the military. They had to take hundreds of young boys who were not raised properly by their parents or by society and teach them how to be men. I was no exception to this and had great admiration for my instructors for what they had to endure from the recruits, and for the wisdom they instilled in each one of us. CHAPTER Tree. The Hon. Near the end of infantry school, our drill instructors changed their behavior and attitude toward the recruits as they now saw us as infantryman. This included more discussions in which we engaged in dialogue with our instructors, most of whom had been combat deployed as far back as many of the 1980s US military skirmishes in Central America.The instructors directly communicated that we would likely be deployed to the Middle East, as the military engagement in Iraq, of all places, seemed to be escalating by the day. Rivaling militias were fighting for power and control of resources along sectarian and cultural lines. I felt that the instructors almost viewed us as their children, trying to provide us with the best information and any knowledge that they could that would increase our chances of survival. My company, Bravo 2 of the nineteenth Infantry Regiment, completed infantry basic training in August 2003.Upon graduating, I returned home to Minnesota and promptly re-enrolled in classes at SCSU. I quickly found an apartment to rent near campus and moved my belongings out of storage and into the apartment with my friend and brother-in-arms Harry. Harry was proud of my graduation from infantry school, and we often discussed military life, tactics, and soldiering. We were both highly competitive and often practiced hand-to-hand combat with each other. My fighting skills had drastically improved as our bouts often ended in stalemates without the use of makeshift weapons. I attempted to convince Harry to join ROTC, but he did not want to become a political manager and only wanted to be a soldier. There are many people who hold this belief and I understand why. Being an officer involves much mental planning, writing, and sitting in briefings. As an enlisted soldier, most of the work is focused on training, execution, and the health and welfare of the unit. Officers are also held to a higher behavioral standard, and once you become one, there is less tolerance for wild escapades and hijinks, behavior that is commonplace and is almost a rite of passage among young infantrymen. Shortly after our September drill weekend, which was typically a live fire drill weekend for the scouts and mortar platoons, I received a phone call from our readiness NCO. He initiated the code conversation indicating that I was being activated for a deployment. I received the call at about 8 p.m. on a weekday night, and Harry was standing in front of me when I answered the phone. Embarrassingly, I couldn’t remember the challenge password response to say on the telephone, since my heart was pounding, and I had butterflies in my stomach. Despite not recalling the correct challenge phrase, the readiness NCO stated, “According to US Code Title 10 you are hereby being activated for active duty as part of Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF),” and I was ordered to immediately report for duty with Harry a few days later. The readiness NCO paused and asked me, “Do you have any questions?” I paused, and then I asked, “Where are we going?” In my mind, there were only two options, Iraq or Afghanistan, and since he said OEF that likely meant Afghanistan. The readiness NCO began to laugh and stated, “Honduras.” I replied in shock and confusion, “Honduras? What the hell is in Honduras?” Harry looked at me, shocked and puzzled. The readiness NCO chuckled and said, “See you guys in a couple days. It’s a good deployment.” After I hung up the phone, Harry’s phone rang, and it was the readiness NCO. He still had to contact Harry directly as a formality. It was a quick call and no further information about our activation and deployment was provided. That weekend we were re-assigned from the Headquarters Company Detachment (HHC-Det) to C-Co 1-194 Armor Battalion. A platoon-sized element was formed for the deployment consisting of about forty men with various training and skillsets. We were mainly assigned communications, supply, armor (MIAbrams tank crewmen), cavalry scouts, and infantrymen. Our newly assigned first sergeant (E8) came from outside the command and was a military police officer and criminal investigator. That weekend we began our pre-deployment checklist to ensure that we were eligible to deploy. Unfortunately, Harry had recently had a minor behavioral infraction as a civilian, and he was deemed undeployable. I was told in the same conversation that the reason I was being sent was that I was the highest-achieving, lowest-ranking man in the battalion. Thanks, I guess? Both Harry and I were upset that we would not be deploying together. That weekend we were issued official US government passports, which granted us diplomatic immunity, and were also briefed on the lack of a Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) in the country that we were deploying to, Honduras. A SOFA is an agreement between the host country and the foreign nation stationing military force in that country. SOFAs are often included, along with other types of military agreements, as part of a comprehensive security arrangement. A SOFA does not constitute a security arrangement; it establishes the rights and privileges of foreign personnel present in a host country in support of the larger security arrangement. Under international law, a status of forces agreement differs from military occupation. A SOFA is intended to clarify the terms under which the foreign military is allowed to operate. Typically, purely military operational issues such as the locations of bases and access to facilities are covered by separate agreements. A SOFA is more concerned with the legal issues associated with military individuals and property. This may include issues such as entry and exit into the country, tax liabilities, postal services, or employment terms for host-country nationals, but the most contentious issues are civil and criminal jurisdiction over bases and personnel. For civil matters, SOFAs provide for how civil damages caused by the forces will be determined and paid. Criminal issues vary, but the typical provision in US SOFAs is that US courts will have jurisdiction over crimes committed either by a service member against another service member or by a service member as part of his or her military duty, but the host nation retains jurisdiction over other crimes. In context, this meant that if we were detained by the authorities in Honduras, we would be subject to their legal process and that the US government had no right to intervene. More simply, if there was an altercation or any legal issue involving US service members, the US government would attempt to extradite us out of the country as fast as possible. I found this to be strange, but I was young, new, and learning, so I kept an open mind. Despite learning about our precarious position while deployed to Honduras, the command was tight lipped about what we would be doing in Honduras. We received our written orders, and I began the laborious process of withdrawing from courses at SCSU, made plans with my landlord to store my property, and set up automatic payment methods for my bills. We were first sent to Fort McCoy, which is in the central part of Wisconsin. Fort McCoy was a dump of an army facility. Not that many of the other army facilities that I visited before were much better. We were assigned to living quarters that looked like they were built during World War II, which had very little insulation and winter was rapidly setting in. If there is one thing enlisted soldiers do, it is bitch and complain about whatever the current failings of the army are. We were provided with a two-month training schedule for unknown activities in Central America. Of note, I was assigned to Combat Lifesaver Training where I was taught numerous advanced medical skills, including administering IVs, inserting breathing tubes, and treating other complex wounds or injuries, like sucking chest wounds.I really enjoyed the additional medical training and took the added responsibility seriously. Every day someone asked about our mission, and the command would not provide us any information until everyone in the unit received their interim secret security clearances. Most of the other units at Fort McCoy were deploying to either Iraq or Afghanistan, and the training cadre didn’t really know what to do with a unit deploying to Central America that couldn’t discuss what they would be doing. We went through a mix of the training lanes related to counter insurgency tactics, urban warfare, improvised explosive device response, and suicide bomber interdiction and response among the standard hand-to-hand combat training with knives, rifles, and pistols. Additionally, our first sergeant taught us about law enforcement skills, military law enforcement and process, and criminal investigation, all of which would come in handy later in my life. We learned how to preserve, document, and collect evidence for criminal investigations and interview suspects to obtain information and intelligence which could be used for a wide variety of purposes. After two months of training on a wide variety of skills, many of which were not specific to combat and were more akin to working with law enforcement officials, we finally started to receive tidbits of information related to our mission in Honduras. We jokingly referred to Honduras as “the Hon,” mimicking the veterans that served in Vietnam. Although, serving in the Hon was a vacation in comparison to Vietnam. From Fort McCoy we traveled on an Air Force C-17 Globemaster, a large, four-engine jet aircraft, to Charleston Air Force base where we were to await further orders and to arrange transportation to Soto Cano Airbase, which was also known as Joint Task Force-Bravo (JTF-B).Soto Cano Airbase was the largest runway used by the United States to launch missions deep into South America, as well as throughout Central America and the Caribbean Sea and significant strategic importance for this reason. To add to the confusion, JTF-B was also known by another name, Palmerola Air Base. Whether it’s called JTF-B, Soto Cano Airbase, or Palmerola Air Base (one of the few military installations where the US flag does not fly and is controlled technically by the Honduran Air Force), it has been a launching point for numerous clandestine missions throughout its history. The installation has played a critical role for Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) operations and US military operations throughout the region since 1981.Palmerola Air Base was used to deliver medical and military aid to the Contras as part of the Iran-Contra Scandal facilitated by the exonerated Colonel Oliver North. Unsurprisingly, during my time at JTF-B, the base was still being used for overt and clandestine operations. After three or four days of waiting to catch an air force bird directly to JTF-B, the army changed its mind and decided to send us on commercial civilian aircraft to Tegucigalpa, Honduras where we would be transported by bus to JTF-B. As I recall, we flew from the Charleston Airport to San Salvador, El Salvador and then caught a connecting flight to Tegucigalpa. The landing at the Tegucigalpa International Airport is a real nail biter. The airport is surrounded by mountains on all sides, and the airport is located on the only flat piece of earth in the valley. The aircraft must fly fifty feet over protruding rocks and shanties to land on what is a very short runway. Upon landing, all the civilians clapped and cheered, and we gathered our belongings to clear customs, where we pulled out our new diplomatic passports and were waved through. For anyone that has traveled internationally and had to clear customs, it was an amazing experience in comparison. In Tegucigalpa, we were picked up by school buses with armed escorts and began our drive to JTF-B. As we left the wealthier, central part of the city, I was shocked by the poverty that I saw. The smell of hot and burning garbage and strange noxious chemicals, as well as the sight of a man defecating out in the open on a city street littered in garbage, was no laughing matter. The poorest of the poor found ripped plastic sheets and dropped them over logs to make makeshift tents in the dirt. As the sun set on the drive, you could see the sides of the mountains burning, presumably being cleared for agricultural use. Finally, upon arrival we were assigned sleeping quarters in something called a hooch, a wood, kerosene-soaked building on stilts with a metal roof. They were soaked with kerosene to prevent termites and other insects from destroying them and were on stilts due to the dangerous flash flooding that could occur during the rainy season. The next day we were finally fully briefed on our mission at JTF-B. Our primary mission was to provide security for the base and to serve as the base’s law enforcement. The physical perimeter of the base was frequently breached by the locals who would do things like steal the lights off the perimeter fence or bicycles from US service members. The more daring thieves would often attempt to enter buildings and ignore the warning signs to not enter something called a VORTAC, which is a radio frequency device system to help pilots navigate their aircraft. This, of course, came at great risk to the health of the criminals that entered the VORTAC while it was in operation, due to the immense amount of radiation that it emits. The security shifts were mostly boring, and most of the action occurred at the base’s entry control point (ECP) post’s deputy commander for failure to abide by the post commander’s off post policy. Often, the Hondurans working on the base would attempt to smuggle goods like consumer electronics off the base since the goods purchased at the post exchange were much more affordable than the local markets’ prices due to tariffs and shipping costs in the local economy. Occasionally, we would find a weapon being smuggled onto the base, or merely forgotten in their vehicle during searches. When guarding the flight line, you would really begin to understand the true purpose of the base. My first shift guarding the flight line, a strangely marked, heavily modified C-130 landed and taxied to its final stopping point. Twelve or so burly men and a few that looked like normal US government employees stepped out of the aircraft. Inside the aircraft were sophisticated weapon systems and electronic equipment, and I was told that there were explosives aboard. This indicated that we had to establish an extra perimeter of security for the aircraft. I wondered who these people were and what they were doing at our airbase. The next few days, more of the potential missions were discussed. We learned that we would be periodically attached to other missions in the region and that we were the quick reaction force for the area of operation. Quick reaction forces (QRFs) are the response teams that are called when the US government needs emergency help. They are like a 911 emergency response for the military or other US government assets. The only time that a QRF was activated during my time at JTF-B was to protect US interests in Haiti during the 2004 coup d’état to remove President Jean-Bertrand Aristide. In addition to our QRF role, we were attached to a unit commanded by an Army Special Forces captain, where it seemed that he had carte blanche to assemble teams from any of the assets available at JTF-B. Some of these missions were providing humanitarian assistance and medical treatment to remote and poor communities. Sometimes these missions were in coordination with the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). According to USAID: USAID is the world’s premier international development agency and a catalytic actor driving development results. USAID’s work advances U.S. national security and economic prosperity, demonstrates American generosity, and promotes a path to recipient self-reliance and resilience. Sometimes, it was our mission to provide training to local law enforcement or to foreign militaries. Often, they were conducting narcotics interdiction missions throughout Central America and many people from my platoon wanted to be assigned to these missions. Rarely, we would fly in Blackhawks or Chinooks and drop off plain-clothed US government employees at strange places. I strongly suspected that these people were CIA operatives, although I never asked. It was obvious in my opinion. We came to realize that we were the muscle for whenever our country required it, and we had no problem with that. We provided personal security details to American ambassadors, high ranking military members and their families, or other personnel that required it when asked by the command. On one occasion, an armed robber with a fully automatic assault rifle stopped a US-owned bus and robbed everyone on the bus at gun point. We worked with the corrupt local law enforcement in Comayagua to identify the guilty party, to no avail, and then started riding the bus, armed and in plain clothes, to capture or kill the assailants, but unfortunately the opportunity never presented itself. This was one of many incredible learning experiences about how other parts of the world functioned with government corruption daily. Only a month into our tour of duty in Honduras, I had my first eye-opening experience about the reality of geopolitics in Central and South America. One night, after my security patrol shift ended, I decided to go off post to a bar in the nearest town Comayagua. Comayagua was representative of many tier-two cities in Honduras. There were several large multi-national corporations that were manufacturing things like chemicals for soap or were in the fertilizer manufacturing and agricultural businesses in the Comayagua Valley. The valley itself was at a high elevation for Honduras and had a very distinct hot and dry season followed by a tropical wet season beginning in late May. Many of the residents of the valley worked in fruit and vegetable production with three highly productive growing seasons that spanned the entire year, worked in manufacturing jobs at the factories, or, if lucky enough, worked on our military installation. Honduras was a very dangerous place and so was Comayagua. People were shot or killed on a frequent basis, and it had one of the highest murder, and violent assault rates in the world. The gringos (US Army and other foreign military uniforms were green camouflage and they wanted us to go home, hence the term’s origin), as they referred to us, were typically viewed as off limits by the criminals, cartel members, gang members, and the police as they did not want the US government getting involved in the potential fallout from an assault or other harmful act against a US service member. Also, we stuck out like sore thumbs. Nothing screams gringo more than a bunch of very tall, blue-eyed, blonde men with crew cuts and Midwestern accents going for a stroll in the worst parts of Central America. There was no blending in. Once a month, our team went with other leaders from the base, including the J2 (military intelligence of a joint operation), and would visit, inspect, and analyze the neighborhoods and establishments in Comayagua and other cities, sometimes in partnership with the State Department to create risk assessments for US government personnel operating in the country. Often, the high risk or safe areas on the map were arbitrary due to the highly variable security conditions and the requirements to make the risk maps easy to understand by personnel only glancing at them for a few seconds. That night, I decided to go to a bar that was deemed to be “safe” alone. I received my off-post pass from the security desk sergeant and proceeded to hop in one of the cabs that were always waiting at the front gate. The twenty-five-minute drive was always terrifying and exciting on the lawless Honduran highways. The cars were in such disrepair that dangerous mechanical failures at speed were common. Halfway through my secondponche,a fruit-and-rum-based cocktail, a scruffy, overweight white man in his late forties wearing a baseball cap walked into the bar, sat down next to me, ordered a beer, and began to make small talk in perfect English, so I presumed that he was an American. After fifteen to twenty minutes, the man started to try to recruit me for a private security operation in Africa, which I politely entertained while privately thinking the man was crazy. He was offering me $150,000 to guard diamond mines in the Congo. Next, as we continued to drink and chat, he started asking questions that, if answered, could have been used to ascertain my base’s force strength, capabilities, and missions. This sudden change in conversation set off all the red flags from the counterintelligence training I had received. I quickly made up an excuse as to why I had to leave, hopped in a cab, and returned to base. Upon returning to base at roughly 11 p.m., I immediately reported the incident to my squad leader and was told to report the incident to the base J2. The security desk sergeant called the J2 in his hooch, roused him out of bed, and then we briefly met and spoke with each other, where I gave him a full report of what had just happened. He thanked me, told my squad leader that I had done the right thing, and told me to report to the Secured Compartmentalized Information Facility(SCIF) to be debriefed at 9 a.m. I went back to my hooch, went to sleep, woke up early for physical training, and then put a uniform on, even though it was my day off, to report to the SCIF. Upon reporting to the SCIF, I was escorted into a conference room next to the J2’s office where the army lieutenant (J2) debriefed me on what had happened. He told me that the man was a well-known Chinese spy. I was shocked. Apparently, this Chinese spy had been operating in the area for over a year. The lieutenant then explained to me that Central America and Honduras is a hot bed for foreign spy activity because of all the foreign governments fighting for influence and resources throughout Central America. After his briefing, I then answered specific questions about what had occurred while the J2 and a man dressed in civilian attire, that I did not recognize, took notes. After the briefing and back-briefing concluded, I was released for the day. After these events, I never looked at Central America or global foreign powers the same way. Every time I noticed a bridge or school being built in Honduras, I wondered who was paying for it and what their true objective was. This is the reality in third world countries with vast natural and human resources. These real-world experiences, combined with the continuous military training, would significantly aid my survival in the future. During that same period, we were introduced to Special Forces Captain “Wally.” Captain Wally would be our leader on numerous missions and was excited that we wanted to learn his advanced unconventional methods. He immediately seemed to be fond of my squad, and we began training with him daily in advanced hand-to-hand combat techniques. We were like sponges and eagerly awaited his personal training on our days off from security related duties. The man was a machine and seemed to know every tactic or trick you could imagine. During one of these training sessions, one of my squad members snapped his tibia in grappling training during a flip and leg bar maneuver, and I had to run frantically two miles to obtain emergency medical assistance. The medics raced to treat the man, and he was almost instantly medically evacuated by helicopter back to the United States. We didn’t stop training but received a stern talking to from our actual infantry company commander about training too hard, which I later determined was representative of the typical and constant irony a person would experience while serving in the US military. A few days later, Captain Wally stopped by my hooch with my squad leader to inform me that I had been selected to go on the next counter narcotics mission. I received a crash course in narcotics smuggling and a classified briefing about the mission (the mission has since been declassified). The process is rather simple: cocaine or other contraband travels north predominantly from Colombia and cash and weapons flowed south. At the time, the FARC(also known as Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia) and northern cartels of Colombia were prominent players in drug trafficking. Drugs are transported three ways, by trucks, by air, or by sea. At the time, narco-submarines did not exist so go-fasts were typically high-powered racing boats or were civilian aircraft that would take off from Colombia and fly north while zigzagging (thinking that they could avoid the United States’ sophisticated radar systems). In fact, these flight maneuvers often confirmed our drug smuggling suspicions. There is only one road that easily connects Central America to the United States and that is CA-5. CA-5 is the road that JTF-B is located on, so hun

PREFACE. The warnings and prophecies addressed to one generation must prove very ineffective if they are equally applicable to the next. But in the eloquent appeal published forty-three years ago, by General Chesney, with its vivid description and harrowing pathos, few readers will not recognize parallel features to those of our own situation in September, 1914. True the handicaps of the invasion of August, 1871, are heavily piled upon the losing combatant. Not only the eternal Anglo-Irish trouble, so easily mistaken by the foreigner for such a difference as might be found separating two other countries, but complications with America, as well as the common form seduction of the British fleet to the Dardanelles, a general unreadiness of all administrative departments, and a deep distrust of the "volunteer" movement, involve the whole drama in an atmosphere of profound pessimism. But there are scores of other details, counsels, and reflections, of which we will not spoil the reader's enjoyment by anticipation, which, as the common saying is of history when it repeats itself, "might have been written yesterday." The desperate condition of things is all the more remarkable as Englishmen had just witnessed the crushing defeat of their great ally, supposed to be the first military power of Europe, by the enemy they are supposed to despise. The story is otherwise simple enough. The secret annexation of Holland and Denmark is disclosed. People said we might have kept out of the trouble. But an impulsive nation egged on the Government who, confident that our old luck would pull us through, at once declare war. The fleet, trying to close with the enemy, is destroyed in "a few minutes" by the "deadly engines" left behind by the evasive enemy; our amateurish armies are defeated on our own soil, and voila tout. Remarkable must have been the national insouciance, or despondent the eye which viewed it, to explain the impassioned actuality of such a reveillematin. For one thing it may be remarked that The Battle of Dorking, Contributed by General Sir George T Chesney, 1830 to 1895, to Blackwood's Magazine in May of 1871. It created a great sensation and appeared in pamphlet form the same year, though in a sense the "history" of the pamphlet is already "ancient," is really the first of its kind. The topic, then of such inspiring freshness, has since become well worn. Mutatis mutandis, doubtless, much of General Chesney's advice and warning might have been repeated on the occasion of the Boer War. If that were not a practical "alarum to the patriotic Briton," we ask ourselves what could be so called. Perhaps it combined the maximum of alarm with the minimum of national risk, but its beneficent influence can scarcely be questioned. At the date of the republication of this pamphlet we face a peril immeasurably greater than that, if not equal to the Napoleonic terror of 1803; and we face it, as concerns the mass of our population, with a calmness which, to critical eyes and in view of the appeal made by the Government to the country, is at least susceptible of an unsatisfactory explanation. If surprise, misunderstanding, may in a measure account for that, it would be idle to pretend that the national mood and temper, and the moods and tempers of nations will vary, were altogether, if they could ever be, such as encouraged the most sanguine hopes of our success when exposed to an ordeal of suddenness, extent, and severity unknown in the world's history. In estimating the risks of our situation, thoughtful criticism may be said to run naturally into two channels. Firstly, in the political world, for reasons which cannot here be considered, the past decade has seen a predominance of idealist activity and ratiocination scarcely known before. Hence the State has exhibited, to some extent, a Utopiste attitude likely to mislead foreign nations, it may be said with mild brevity, alike as to our real views of their conduct, and as to our national belief in the right or duty of self-assertion. If, in 1871, we were represented as the helpless dupes of foreign diplomacy, in 1914 we rather appear to have deceived the enemy to our own hurt. A humane aversion to War, though, for that matter, it is only by a philanthropic "illusion" that the extreme stage of self-assertion can be morally differentiated from those that precede it, may tempt politicians by a too sedulous avoidance of the unpleasing phrase to invite the dreadful reality. But, again, in the private life of the nation, other traits, some noted in the pamphlet of 71, have given cause for critical reflection. Besides Luxury, remarkable enough in its novel and fantastic forms, though a commonplace complaint of tractarians in all ages, a generally increased relaxation of all old-established ties of religion, convention or tradition, a tendency noticeable in general conduct, art and letters alike, a sort of orgy of intellectual and literary Erastianism, a blasé craving for sensational novelty, encouraged perhaps if not sated by the startling novelties of the age, have given scope for anxiety as to the conservation in the English nature of that solid morale, that "gesundes und sicheres Gefuhl", the “feeling of health and safety”, defined by an eminent thinker as the source of all worthy activity. These words can but very crudely sketch a complex sense of uneasiness and dissatisfaction familiar to most of us. Mister Kipling has sung long since of athletic excesses and indolence. More recent critics have dwelt on the extravagant time and expense devoted to golf. General Chesney would have branded the sensationalist effeminacy of our football-gloating crowds of thousands who might be recruits. Reviewers laugh wearily over the horrors or absurdities of the latest poetic monstrosity or "futurist" nightmare. But in one phase or another the consciousness is present to all, and not unnoticed by our enemies. And it adds a sting to our inevitable anxiety if we cannot yet feel sure how far we can "recollect" our true best selves in the very moment of action, how far there has been given to us that saving grace of a storm-tost nation, “L’art de porter en soi le remede de ses proyres defauts", or “The art of carrying within oneself the remedy for one's own shortcomings.” Every race, doubtless, has its own special weaknesses and delusions, the "idols" of its patriotic "cave," and it is a commonplace of history that the moral, physical, or intellectual "decadence" of one age is revived and actualized by the material cataclysm of another. And the readiness, spiritual and material, of the nation in utrumque paratus is the index of its harmony with its environment. On the other hand there are wars to be fully prepared for which would almost mean to be a partner in their criminality. There is an attitude of defence which, if successful, would lose all dignity were it allied with a permanent distrust in the morality and humanity of other nations. If only an inhuman pride could be free from uneasiness at such a moment, at least warm encouragement comes to us ab extra. Whatever our weaknesses now, our sins or blunders in the past, no historian will question the motive, nay, the severe moral effort with which the English nation enters upon this war of the ages. It is scarcely conceivable that any people could be called upon to make a greater or more sudden exhibition of, their peculiar qualities. What will be the verdict upon our own? That we are willfully misunderstood, misrepresented, must matter little to us, if we have the moral support of a public opinion which will, if we triumph, be more powerful for good than ever before. Nor need we fear its ultimate perversion by interested slander. The hostile demonstrations of the German intellect during the early stages of this war have scarcely been on a par with those of its material force. One of the latest of sophistical Imperialist ebullitions complains with somewhat forced pathos of our waging war with our former allies of Waterloo! But we did not fight the French then because they were French, nor ally ourselves with Prussians because they spoke a guttural tongue. We fought then, as now, against the erection of an impossible and unbearable European tyranny, the local origin and nationality of which would have been quite immaterial to the main question. Can we believe for a moment that the great German intellect has ever been under the slightest misapprehension of so very simple a matter? War, honest war, may be Hell, as General Sherman described it. It is, at least, a form of Purgatory in which personality, nationality, are forces that count but little, while principle and motive (as was tragically exhibited in the great American struggle) are everything. Did not Christianity itself preach this kind of sanctified discord in which a novel sense of right, or the perception of higher ideal, should divide even the nearest and dearest, and set them at war not, as in old days, by reason of any "family compact," or mere racial tie, but for the sake of "Right," and, so far as ordinary friendly or neighbourly relations were concerned, in utter "scorn of consequence." There, indeed, is the poignant tragedy of the case. To be at war with the countrymen of Schumann and Beethoven, of Goethe and Ranke, is not that an affliction to the very soul of England, an outrage to feelings and instincts tangled up with the very core of our civilization? Terrible, indeed, is it that there should be amities which, at such crises, we must "tear from our bosom Though our heart be at the root." No man or nation expects perfection in his friends. Honestly we have loved and respected the German. We have not wormed ourselves into his confidence, nursing through long years secret stores of explosive jealousy. His art, his learning, have had their full meed of admiration from his kindred here. But we recognize, dull, indeed, would they be who needed a more striking reminder that beneath the defective "manner" of the Teuton lurks an element of crude barbarity with which we cannot pretend to fraternize. The violence of the Goths and Huns had its place in history; but that would be a strange international morality which would give the rein now to mediaeval instincts of egoistic tyranny and perfectly organized brute force, as against the gentler instincts, the higher social civilization largely associated with the Latin and Celtic races. In these matters the Balance of Power is no less vital to international life and the evolution of true cosmopolitan ideals than in mere Politics. And if we stand up in battle for the smaller races it is not merely because they are small and need defence, but because an element of the right, a share in the civilization which we mean to prevail, is with them and a part of their heritage. The technical bond may be, as the scoffing enemy remarks (in words which will surely, as curses, return some day to roost), a mere “scrap of paper" signed with England's name. But the civilized world will recognize that it is only by the increased sanctity of such ties that Europe advances towards intelligent cosmopolitanism, and leaves behind the vandal wild beast den after which woe to those who still hanker! There were critics, even English critics, who have taken so superficial a view of history and humanity as to ask why we should support France, with our blood and treasure, when in morale and intellect it is perhaps the candid truth that we are more on the side of her enemy. It is scarcely necessary to urge in reply that France, if not the one great continental nation, is the one great people of parallel and contemporary development to our own, our comrade, our rival, our nearest social (if not racial) kin, and that, spite of all her decadence and even degradation, upon the arena of Europe she stands for Humanity and Civilization against Absolutism and Brute Force. And as we raised the world against her, when dominated by the tyrannous egoism of Bonaparte, the monstrous fungoid growth that overlaid her great Revolution and obscured her services to freedom, so now we stand as foes, not, we would fain believe, of the German people, but of the militarist clique, the Napoleonic nightmare that overpowers her moral instincts and clouds her honesty and intelligence. But here, again, let us not deceive ourselves as to the extent, perhaps to be all too fatally revealed, of "the force behind the Kaiser." Germany of to-day stands for a compact mass of highly energized, though not yet politically conscious, material and intellectual vigour. That a group of principalities, obsessed by militarist and petty-aristocratic traditions, should within half a century of their amalgamation form a politically great and united people, could scarcely be expected. But if not fully organized on the representative lines to which we attach so much importance, Germany presents a united front of intelligence, commercial industry and ambition with which her rapidly increasing population pushes on, eager for new worlds to conquer. That she demands an "Elizabethan age" of her own is the tragic platitude of our time. That she is aggrieved that we have had one, while we can only imperfectly, in her estimation, utilize its modern fruits, is her true theoretical casus belli against us. The immorality of the position consists in her belief that the Sun of Civilization must stand still, the currents of Law and Order run backwards to satisfy her entetee and unscrupulous jealousy. Englishmen have been so innocent as to believe she would be satisfied by a share, nay an extensive monopoly of the trade we once thought our own. They have urged that the German has all the advantages enjoyed by a native throughout the British Empire, that in spite of a constant agitation by a large and powerful party, no English Government has ever used its power to impose any artificial restraints upon German trade; that the fullest hospitality of these Islands has been extended to our Teuton brethren; while they were invited to successfully compete on their merits with one English industry after another. That they would not rest content with these advantages, this political and commercial equality, that they would want to organize secret treachery, to spy out our weaknesses and hide bombs in their bedrooms, that, to the simple Briton of a few weeks ago, would have seemed impossible. He now knows what primitive passions may lurk behind a plausible commercialism secretly disappointed in its immoderate greed. It is in the alliance of despotic militarism with bureaucratic intellectual sophistry that has lain a new peril for the world, and one yet to be fully realized by the German people, when many of the hasty and speculative structures of herself conscious and academic Protectionism are discovered to be as unsound as the quasi-religious aphorisms of the Kaiser. In spite of these confident assurances it may be the fate of that arrogant leader to find himself at war with "things," stony facts, economic laws that crush the transgressor, as well as with an indignant world. Meanwhile, our armies have fought bravely and held their own in the greatest battle, the most ferocious conflict the world ever dreamed of. Our unconquered fleet, after the tradition of four centuries, is still "looking for the enemy." All around us, as we write, is evidence that the nation is bracing herself for a new and stupendous effort of courage, perhaps of imaginative strategy and even Weltpolitik which will in startling fashion bring the forces of half the world to meet and crush a world-menacing peril, and place our England, the mistress of the seas, on a pinnacle where she will be justified of all her patriotic children, counsellors, critics and heroes alike. G. H. Powell. THE BATTLE OF DORKING. You ask me to tell you, my grandchildren, something about my own share in the great events that happened fifty years ago. 'Tis sad work turning back to that bitter page in our history, but you may perhaps take profit in your new homes from the lesson it teaches. For us in England it came too late. And yet we had plenty of warnings, if we had only made use of them. The danger did not come on us unawares. It burst on us suddenly, 'tis true; but it’s coming was foreshadowed plainly enough to open our eyes, if we had not been willfully blind. We English have only ourselves to blame for the humiliation which has been brought on the land. Venerable old age! Dishonourable old age, I say, when it follows a manhood dishonoured as ours has been. I declare, even now, though fifty years have passed, I can hardly look a young man in the face when I think I am one of those in whose youth happened this degradation of Old England, one of those who betrayed the trust handed down to us unstained by our forefathers. What a proud and happy country was this fifty years ago! Free-trade had been working for more than a quarter of a century, and there seemed to be no end to the riches it was bringing us. London was growing bigger and bigger; you, could not build houses fast enough for the rich people who wanted to live in them, the merchants who made the money and came from all parts of the world to settle there, and the lawyers and doctors and engineers and others, and tradespeople who got their share out of the profits. The streets reached down to Croydon and Wimbledon, which my father could remember quite country-places; and people used to say that Kingston and Reigate would soon be joined to London. We thought we could go on building and multiplying forever. 'Tis true that even then there was no lack of poverty; the people who had no money went on increasing as fast as the rich, and pauperism was already beginning to be a difficulty; but if the rates were high, there was plenty of money to pay them with; and as for what were called the middle classes, there really seemed no limit to their increase and prosperity. People in those days thought it quite a matter of course to bring a dozen children into the world, or, as it used to be said, Providence sent them that number of babies; and if they couldn't always marry off all the daughters, they used to manage to provide for the sons, for there were new openings to be found in all the professions, or in the Government offices, which went on steadily getting larger. Besides, in those days young men could be sent out to India, or into the army or navy; and even then emigration was not uncommon, although not the regular custom it is now. Schoolmasters, like all other professional classes, drove a capital trade. They did not teach very much, to be sure, but new schools with their four or five hundred boys were springing up all over the country. Fools that we were! We thought that all this wealth and prosperity were sent us by Providence, and could not stop coming. In our blindness we did not see that we were merely a big workshop, making up the things which came from all parts of the world; and that if other nations stopped sending us raw goods to work up, we could not produce them ourselves. True, we had in those days an advantage in our cheap coal and iron; and had we taken care not to waste the fuel, it might have lasted us longer. But even then there were signs that coal and iron would soon become cheaper in foreign parts; while as to food and other things, England was not better off than it is now. We were so rich simply because other nations from all parts of the world were in the habit of sending their goods to us to be sold or manufactured; and we thought that this would last for ever. And so, perhaps, it might have lasted, if we had only taken proper means to keep it; but, in our folly, we were too careless even to insure our prosperity, and after the course of trade was turned away it would not come back again. And yet, if ever a nation had a plain warning, we had. If we were the greatest trading country, our neighbours were the leading military power in Europe. They were driving a good trade, too, for this was before their foolish communism (about which you will hear when you are older) had ruined the rich without benefiting the poor, and they were in many respects the first nation in Europe; but it was on their army that they prided themselves most. And with reason. They had beaten the Russians and the Austrians, and the Prussians too, in bygone years, and they thought they were invincible. Well do I remember the great review held at Paris by the Emperor Napoleon during the great Exhibition, and how proud he looked showing off his splendid Guards to the assembled kings and princes. Yet, three years afterwards, the force so long deemed the first in Europe was ignominiously beaten, and the whole army taken prisoners. Such a defeat had never happened before in the world's history; and with this proof before us of the folly of disbelieving in the possibility of disaster merely because it had never fallen upon us, it might have been supposed that we should have the sense to take the lesson to heart. And the country was certainly roused for a time, and a cry was raised that the army ought to be reorganized, and our defences strengthened against the enormous power for sudden attacks which it was seen other nations were able to put forth. And a scheme of army reform was brought forward by the Government. It was a half-and-half affair at best; and unfortunately, instead of being taken up in Parliament as a national scheme, it was made a party matter of, and so fell through. There was a Radical section of the House, too, whose votes had to be secured by conciliation, and which blindly demanded a reduction of armaments as the price of allegiance. This party always decried military establishments as part of a fixed policy for reducing the influence of the Crown and the aristocracy. They could not understand that the times had altogether changed, that the Crown had really no power, and that the Government merely existed at the pleasure of the House of Commons, and that even Parliament-rule was beginning to give way to mob-law. At any rate, the Ministry, baffled on all sides, gave up by degrees all the strong points of a scheme which they were not heartily in earnest about. It was not that there was any lack of money, if only it had been spent in the right way. The army cost enough, and more than enough, to give us a proper defence, and there were armed men of sorts in plenty and to spare, if only they had been decently organized. It was in organization and forethought that we fell short, because our rulers did not heartily believe in the need for preparation. The fleet and the Channel, they said, were sufficient protection. So army reform was put off to some more convenient season, and the militia and volunteers were left untrained as before, because to call them out for drill would "interfere with the industry of the country." We could have given up some of the industry of those days, forsooth, and yet be busier than we are now. But why tell you a tale you have so often heard already? The nation, although uneasy, was misled by the false security its leaders professed to feel; and the warning given by the disasters that overtook France was allowed to pass by unheeded. We would not even be at the trouble of putting our arsenals in a safe place, or of guarding the capital against a surprise, although the cost of doing so would not have been so much as missed from the national wealth. The French trusted in their army and its great reputation, we in our fleet; and in each case the result of this blind confidence was disaster, such as our forefathers in their hardest struggles could not have even imagined. I need hardly tell you how the crash came about. First, the rising in India drew away a part of our small army; then came the difficulty with America, which had been threatening for years, and we sent off ten thousand men to defend Canada, a handful which did not go far to strengthen the real defences of that country, but formed an irresistible temptation to the Americans to try and take them prisoners, especially as the contingent included three battalions of the Guards. Thus the regular army at home was even smaller than usual, and nearly half of it was in Ireland to check the talked-of Fenian invasion fitting out in the West. Worse still, though I do not know it would really have mattered as things turned out, the fleet was scattered abroad: some ships to guard the West Indies, others to check privateering in the China seas, and a large part to try and protect our colonies on the Northern Pacific shore of America, where, with incredible folly, we continued to retain possessions which we could not possibly defend. America was not the great power forty years ago that it is now; but for us to try and hold territory on her shores which could only be reached by sailing round the Horn, was as absurd as if she had attempted to take the Isle of Man before the independence of Ireland. We see this plainly enough now, but we were all blind then. It was while we were in this state, with our ships all over the world, and our little bit of an army cut up into detachments, that the Secret Treaty was published, and Holland and Denmark were annexed. People say now that we might have escaped the troubles which came on us if we had at any rate kept quiet till our other difficulties were settled; but the English were always an impulsive lot: the whole country was boiling over with indignation, and the Government, egged on by the Press, and going with the stream, declared war. We had always got out of scrapes before, and we believed our old luck and pluck would somehow pull us through. Then, of course, there was bustle and hurry all over the land. Not that the calling up of the army reserves caused much stir, for I think there were only about five thousand altogether, and a good many of these were not to be found when the time came; but recruiting was going on all over the country, with a tremendous high bounty, fifty thousand more men having been voted for the army. Then there was a Ballot Bill passed for adding fifty five thousand, five hundred men to the militia; why a round number was not fixed on I don't know, but the Prime Minister said that this was the exact quota wanted to put the defences of the country on a sound footing. Then the shipbuilding that began! Ironclads, despatch-boats, gunboats, monitors, every building-yard in the country got its job, and they were offering ten shillings a day wages for anybody who could drive a rivet. This didn't improve the recruiting, you may suppose. I remember, too, there was a squabble in the House of Commons about whether artisans should be drawn for the ballot, as they were so much wanted, and I think they got an exemption. This sent numbers to the yards; and if we had had a couple of years to prepare instead of a couple of weeks, I daresay we should have done very well. It was on a Monday that the declaration of war was announced, and in a few hours we got our first inkling of the sort of preparation the enemy had made for the event which they had really brought about, although the actual declaration was made by us. A pious appeal to the God of battles, whom it was said we had aroused, was telegraphed back; and from that moment all communication with the north of Europe was cut off. Our embassies and legations were packed off at an hour's notice, and it was as if we had suddenly come back to the middle ages. The dumb astonishment visible all over London the next morning, when the papers came out void of news, merely hinting at what had happened, was one of the most startling things in this war of surprises. But everything had been arranged beforehand; nor ought we to have been surprised, for we had seen the same Power, only a few months before, move down half a million of men on a few days' notice, to conquer the greatest military nation in Europe, with no more fuss than our War Office used to make over the transport of a brigade from Aldershot to Brighton, and this, too, without the allies it had now. What happened now was not a bit more wonderful in reality; but people of this country could not bring themselves to believe that what had never occurred before to England could ever possibly happen. Like our neighbours, we became wise when it was too late. Of course the papers were not long in getting news, even the mighty organization set at work could not shut out a special correspondent; and in a very few days, although the telegraphs and railways were intercepted right across Europe, the main facts oozed out. An embargo had been laid on all the shipping in every port from the Baltic to Ostend; the fleets of the two great Powers had moved out, and it was supposed were assembled in the great northern harbour, and troops were heaving on board all the steamers detained in these places, most of which were British vessels. It was clear that invasion was intended. Even then we might have been saved, if the fleet had been ready. The forts which guarded the flotilla were perhaps too strong for slipping to attempt; but an ironclad or two, handled as British sailors knew how to use them, might have destroyed or damaged a part of the transports, and delayed the expedition, giving us what we wanted, time. But then the best part of the fleet had been decoyed down to the Dardanelles, and what remained of the Channel squadron was looking after Fenian filibusters off the west of Ireland; so it was ten days before the fleet was got together, and by that time it was plain the enemy's preparations were too far advanced to be stopped by a coup-de-main, Information, which came chiefly through Italy, came slowly, and was more or less vague and uncertain; but this much was known, that at least a couple of hundred thousand men were embarked or ready to be put on board ships, and that the flotilla, was guarded by more ironclads than we could then muster. I suppose it was the uncertainty as to the point the enemy would aim at for landing, and the fear lest he should give us the go-by, that kept the fleet for several days in the Downs; but it was not until the Tuesday fortnight after the declaration of war that it weighed anchor and steamed away for the North Sea. Of course you have read about the Queen's visit to the fleet the day before, and how she sailed round the ships in her yacht, and went on board the flag-ship to take leave of the admiral; how, overcome with emotion, she told him that the safety of the country was committed to his keeping. You remember, too, the gallant old officer's reply, and how all the ships' yards were manned, and how lustily the tars cheered as her Majesty was rowed off. The account was of course telegraphed to London, and the high spirits of the fleet infected the whole town. I was outside the Charring Cross station when the Queen's special train from Dover arrived, and from the cheering and shouting which greeted her Majesty as she drove away, you might have supposed we had already won a great victory. The leading journal, which had gone in strongly for the army reduction carried out during the session, and had been nervous and desponding in tone during the past fortnight, suggesting all sorts of compromises as a way of getting out of the war, came out in a very jubilant form next morning. "Panic-stricken inquirers,'' it said, "ask now, where are the means of meeting the invasion? We reply that the invasion will never take place. A British fleet manned by British sailors, whose courage and enthusiasm are reflected in the people of this country, is already on the way to meet the presumptuous foe. The issue of a contest between British ships and those of any other country, under anything like equal odds, can never be doubtful. England awaits with calm confidence the issue of the impending action." Such were the words of the leading article, and so we all felt. It was on Tuesday, the 10th of August, that the fleet sailed from the Downs. It took with it a submarine cable to lay down as it advanced, so that continuous communication was kept up, and the papers were publishing special editions every few minutes with the latest news. This was the first time such a thing had been done and the feat was accepted as a good omen. Whether it is true that the Admiralty made use of the cable to keep on sending contradictory orders, which took the command out of the admiral's hands, I can't say; but all that the admiral sent in return was a few messages of the briefest kind, which neither the Admiralty nor anyone else could have made any use of. Such a ship had gone off reconnoitering; such another had rejoined, fleet was in latitude so and so. This went on till the Thursday morning. I had just come up to town by train as usual, and was walking to my office, when the newsboys began to cry, "New edition, enemy's fleet in sight!" You may imagine the scene in London! Business still went on at the banks, for bills matured although the independence of the country was being fought out under our own eyes, so to say, and the speculators were active enough. But even with the people who were making and losing their fortunes, the interest in the fleet overcame everything else; men who went to pay in or draw out their money stopped to show the last bulletin to the cashier. As for the street, you could hardly get along for the crowd stopping to buy and read the papers; while at every house or office the members sat restlessly in the common room, as if to keep together for company, sending out some one of their number every few minutes to get the latest edition. At least this is what happened at our office; but to sit still was as impossible as to do anything, and most of us went out and wandered about among the crowd, under a sort of feeling that the news was got quicker at in this way. Bad as were the times coming, I think the sickening suspense of that day, and the shock which followed, was almost the worst that we underwent. It was about ten o'clock that the first telegram came; an hour later the wire announced that the admiral had signaled to form line of battle, and shortly afterwards that the order was given to bear down on the enemy and engage. At twelve came the announcement, "Fleet opened fire about three miles to leeward of us", that is, the ship with the cable. So far all had been expectancy, then came the first token of calamity." An ironclad has been blown up", "the enemy's torpedoes are doing great damage", "the flagship is laid aboard the enemy", "the flag-ship appears to be sinking", "the vice-admiral has signaled to", there the cable became silent, and, as you know, we heard no more till, two days afterwards, the solitary ironclad which escaped the disaster steamed into Portsmouth. Then the whole story came out, how our sailors gallant as ever, had tried to close with the enemy; how the latter evaded the conflict at close quarters, and, sheering off, left behind them the fatal engines which sent our ships, one after the other, to the bottom; how all this happened almost in a few minutes. The Government, it appears, had received warnings of this invention; but to the nation this stunning blow was utterly unexpected. That Thursday I had to go home early for regimental drill, but it was impossible to remain doing nothing, so when that was over I went up to town again, and after waiting in expectation of news which never came, and missing the midnight train, I walked home. It was a hot sultry night, and I did not arrive till near sunrise. The whole town was quite still, the lull before the storm; and as I let myself in with my latch-key, and went softly upstairs to my room to avoid waking the sleeping household, I could not but contrast the peacefulness of the morning, no sound breaking the silence but the singing of the birds in the garden, with the passionate remorse and indignation that would break out with the day. Perhaps the inmates of the rooms were as wakeful as myself but the house in its stillness was just as it used to be when I came home alone from balls or parties in the happy days gone by. Tired though I was, I could not sleep, so I went down to the river and had a swim; and on returning found the household was assembling for early breakfast. A sorrowful household it was, although the burden pressing on each was partly an unseen one. My father, doubting whether his firm could last through the day; my mother, her distress about my brother, now with his regiment on the coast, already exceeding that which she felt for the public misfortune, had come down, although hardly fit to leave her room. My sister Clara was worst of all, for she could not but try to disguise her special interest in the fleet; and though we had all guessed that her heart was given to the young lieutenant in the flag-ship, the first vessel to go down, a love unclaimed could not be told, nor could we express the sympathy we felt for the poor girl. That breakfast, the last meal we ever had together, was soon ended, and my father and I went up to town by an early train, and got there just as the fatal announcement of the loss of the fleet was telegraphed from Portsmouth. The panic and excitement of that day, how the funds went down to 35; the run upon the bank and its stoppage; the fall of half the houses in the city; how the Government issued a notification suspending specie payment and the tendering of bills, this last precaution too late for most firms. Graham and Company among the number, which stopped payment as soon as my father got to the office; the call to arms and the unanimous response of the country, all this is history which I need not repeat. You wish to hear about my own share in the business of the time. Well, volunteering had increased immensely from the day war was proclaimed, and our regiment went up in a day or two from its usual strength of 600 to nearly 1,000. But the stock of rifles was deficient. We were promised a further supply in a few days, which however, we never received; and while waiting for them the regiment had to be divided into two parts, the recruits drilling with the rifles in the morning, and we old hands in the evening. The failures and stoppage of work on this black Friday threw an immense number of young men out of employment, and we recruited up to 1,400 strong by the next day; but what was the use of all these men without arms? On the Saturday it was announced that a lot of smooth-bore muskets in store at the Tower would be served out to regiments applying for them, and a regular scramble took place among the volunteers for them, and our people got hold of a couple of hundred. But you might almost as well have tried to learn rifle-drill with a broom-stick as with old brown bess; besides, there was no smooth-bore ammunition in the country. A national subscription was opened for the manufacture of rifles at Birmingham, which ran up to a couple of millions in two days, but, like everything else, this came too late. To return to the volunteers: camps had been formed a fortnight before at Dover, Brighton, Harwich, and other places, of regulars and militia, and the headquarters of most of the volunteer regiments were attached to one or other of them, and the volunteers themselves used to go down for drill from day to day, as they could spare time, and on Friday an order went out that they should be permanently embodied; but the metropolitan volunteers were still kept about London as a sort of reserve, till it could be seen at what point the invasion would take place. We were all told off to brigades and divisions. Our brigade consisted of the fourth Royal Surrey Militia, the first Surrey Administrative Battalion, as it was called, at Chapham, the seventh Surrey Volunteers at Southwark, and ourselves; but only our battalion and the militia were quartered in the same place, and the whole brigade had merely two or three afternoons together at brigade exercise in Bushey Park before the march took place. Our brigadier belonged to a line regiment in Ireland, and did not join till the very morning the order came. Meanwhile, during the preliminary fortnight, the militia colonel commanded. But though we volunteers were busy with our drill and preparations, those of us who, like myself, belonged to Government offices, had more than enough of office work to do, as you may suppose. The volunteer clerks were allowed to leave office at four o'clock, but the rest were kept hard at the desk far into the night. Orders to the lord-leutenants, to the magistrates, notifications, all the arrangements for cleaning out the workhouses for hospitals, these and a hundred other things had to be managed in our office, and there was as much bustle indoors as out. Fortunate we were to be so busy, the people to be pitied were those who had nothing to do. And on Sunday (that was the fifteenth August) work went on just as usual. We had an early parade and drill, and I went up to town by the nine o'clock train in my uniform, taking my rifle with me in case of accidents, and luckily too, as it turned out, a mackintosh overcoat. When I got to Waterloo there were all sorts of rumours afloat. A fleet had been seen off the Downs, and some of the dispatch boats which were hovering about the coasts brought news that there was a large flotilla off Harwich, but nothing could be seen from the shore, as the weather was hazy. The enemy's light ships had taken and sunk all the fishing boats they could catch, to prevent the news of their whereabouts reaching us; but a few escaped during the night and reported that the frigate “Inconstant “, coming home from North America without any knowledge of what had taken place, had sailed right into the enemy's fleet and been captured. In town the troops were all getting ready for a move; the Guards in the Wellington Barracks were under arms, and their baggage-waggons packed and drawn up in the Bird-cage Walk. The usual guard at the Horse Guards had been withdrawn, and orderlies and staff-officers were going to and fro. All this I saw on the way to my office, where I worked away till twelve o'clock, and then feeling hungry after my early breakfast, I went across Parliament Street to my club to get some luncheon. There were about half-a-dozen men in the coffee-room, none of whom I knew; but in a minute or two Danvers of the Treasury entered in a tremendous hurry. From him I got the first bit of authentic news I had had that day. The enemy had landed in force near Harwich, and the metropolitan regiments were ordered down there to reinforce the troops already collected in that neighbourhood; his regiment was to parade at one o'clock, and he had come to get something to eat before starting. We bolted a hurried lunch, and were just leaving the club when a messenger from the Treasury came running into the hall. "Oh, Mister Danvers," said he, "I've come to look for you, sir; the secretary says that all the gentlemen are wanted at the office, and that you must please not one of you go with the regiments." "The devil!" cried Danvers. "Do you know if that order extends to all the public offices?" I asked. "I don't know," said the man," but I believe it do. I know there's messengers gone round to all the clubs and luncheon-bars to look for the gentlemen; the secretary says it's quite impossible any one can be spared just now, there's so much work to do; there's orders just come to send off our records to Birmingham to-night." I did not wait to condole with Danvers, but, just glancing up Whitehall to see if any of our messengers were in pursuit, I ran off as hard as I could for Westminster Bridge, and so to the Waterloo station. The place had quite changed its aspect since the morning. The regular service of trains had ceased, and the station and approaches were full of troops, among them the Guards and artillery. Everything was very orderly: the men had piled arms, and were standing about in groups. There was no sign of high spirits or enthusiasm. Matters had become too serious. Every man's face reflected the general feeling that we had neglected the warnings given us, and that now the danger so long derided as impossible and absurd had really come and found us unprepared. But the soldiers, if grave, looked determined, like men who meant to do their duty whatever might happen. A train full of guardsmen was just starting for Guildford. I was told it would stop at Surbiton, and, with several other volunteers, hurrying like myself to join our regiment, got a place in it. We did not arrive a moment too soon, for the regiment was marching from Kingston down to the station. The destination of our brigade was the east coast. Empty carriages were drawn up in the siding, and our regiment was to go first. A large crowd was assembled to see it off, including the recruits who had joined during the last fortnight, and who formed by far the largest part of our strength. They were to stay behind, and were certainly very much in the way already; for as all the officers and sergeants belonged to the active part, there was no one to keep discipline among them, and they came crowding around us, breaking the ranks and making it difficult to get into the train. Here I saw our new brigadier for the first time. He was a soldier-like man, and no doubt knew his duty, but he appeared new to volunteers, and did not seem to know how to deal with gentlemen privates. I wanted very much to run home and get my greatcoat and knapsack, which I had bought a few days ago, but feared to be left behind; a good-natured recruit volunteered to fetch them for me, but he had not returned before we started, and I began the campaign with a kit consisting of a mackintosh and a small pouch of tobacco. It was a tremendous squeeze in the train; for, besides the ten men sitting down, there were three or four standing up in every compartment, and the afternoon was close and sultry, and there were so many stoppages on the way that we took nearly an hour and a half crawling up to Waterloo. It was between five and six in the afternoon when we arrived there, and it was nearly seven before we marched up to the Shoreditch station. The whole place was filled up with stores and ammunition, to be sent off to the east, so we piled arms in the street and scattered about to get food and drink, of which most of us stood in need, especially the latter, for some were already feeling the worse for the heat and crush. I was just stepping into a public-house with Travers, when who should drive up but his pretty wife? Most of our friends had paid their adieus at the Surbiton station, but she had driven up by the road in his brougham, bringing their little boy to have a last look at papa. She had also brought his knapsack and greatcoat, and, what was still more acceptable, a basket containing fowls, tongue, bread-and-butter, and biscuits, and a couple of bottles of claret, which priceless luxuries they insisted on my sharing. Meanwhile the hours went on. The fourth Surrey Militia, which had marched all the way from Kingston, had come up, as well as the other volunteer corps; the station had been partly cleared of the stores that encumbered it; some artillery, two militia regiments, and a battalion of the line, had been despatched, and our turn to start had come, and long lines of carriages were drawn up ready for us; but still we remained in the street. You may fancy the scene. There seemed to be as many people as ever in London, and we could hardly move for the crowds of spectators, fellows hawking fruits and volunteers' comforts, newsboys and so forth, to say nothing of the cabs and omnibuses; while orderlies and staff-officers were constantly riding up with messages. A good many of the militiamen, and some of our people too, had taken more than enough to drink; perhaps a hot sun had told on empty stomachs; anyhow, they became very noisy. The din, dirt, and heat were indescribable. So the evening wore on, and all the information our officers could get from the brigadier, who appeared to be acting under another general, was, that orders had come to stand fast for the present. Gradually the street became quieter and cooler. The brigadier, who, by way of setting an example, had remained for some hours without leaving his saddle, had got a chair out of a shop, and sat nodding in it; most of the men were lying down or sitting on the pavement, some sleeping, some smoking. In vain had Travers begged his wife to go home. She declared that, having come so far, she would stay and see the last of us. The brougham had been sent away to a bystreet, as it blocked up the road; so he sat on a doorstep, she by him on the knapsack. Little Arthur, who had been delighted at the bustle and the uniforms, and in high spirits, became at last very cross, and eventually cried himself to sleep in his father's arms, his golden hair and one little dimpled arm hanging over his shoulder. Thus went on the weary hours, till suddenly the assembly sounded, and we all started up. We were to return to Waterloo. The landing on the east was only a feint, so ran the rumour, the real attack was on the south. Anything seemed better than indecision and delay, and, tired though we were, the march back was gladly hailed. Missus.Travers, who made us take the remains of the luncheon with us, we left to look for her carriage; little Arthur, who was awake again, but very good and quiet, in her arms. We did not reach Waterloo till nearly midnight, and there was some delay in starting again. Several volunteer and militia regiments had arrived from the north; the station and all its approaches were jammed up with men, and trains were being despatched away as fast as they could be made up. All this time no news had reached us since the first announcement; but the excitement then aroused had now passed away under the influence of fatigue and want of sleep, and most of us dozed off as soon as we got under way. I did, at any rate, and was awoke by the train stopping at Leatherhead. There was an up-train returning to town, and some persons in it were bringing up news from the coast. We could not, from our part of the train, hear what they said, but the rumour was passed up from one carriage to another. The enemy had landed in force at Worthing. Their position had been attacked by the troops from the camp near Brighton, and the action would be renewed in the morning. The volunteers had behaved very well. This was all the information we could get. So, then, the invasion had come at last. It was clear, at any rate, from what was said, that the enemy had not been driven back yet, and we should be in time most likely to take a share in the defence. It was sunrise when the train crawled into Dorking, for there had been numerous stoppages on the way; and here it was pulled up for a long time, and we were told to get out and stretch ourselves, an order gladly responded to, for we had been very closely packed all night. Most of us, too, took the opportunity to make an early breakfast off the food we had brought from Shoreditch. I had the remains of Missus Travers's fowl and some bread wrapped up in my waterproof, which I shared with one or two less provident comrades. We could see from our halting-place that the line was blocked with trains beyond and behind. It must have been about eight o'clock when we got orders to take our seats again, and the train began to move slowly on towards Horsham. Horsham Junction was the point to be occupied, so the rumour went; but about ten o'clock, when halting at a small station a few miles short of it, the order came to leave the train, and our brigade formed in column on the high road. Beyond us was some field artillery; and further on, so we were told by a staff-officer, another brigade, which was to make up a division with ours. After more delays the line began to move, but not forwards; our route was towards the north-west, and a sort of suspicion of the state of affairs flashed across my mind. Horsham was already occupied by the enemy's advance-guard, and we were to fall back on Leith Common, and take up a position threatening his flank, should he advance either to Guildford or Dorking. This was soon confirmed by what the colonel was told by the brigadier and passed down the ranks; and just now, for the first time, the boom of artillery came up on the light south breeze. In about an hour the firing ceased. What did it mean? We could not tell. Meanwhile our march continued. The day was very close and sultry, and the clouds of dust stirred up by our feet almost suffocated us. I had saved a soda-water-bottleful of yesterday's claret; but this went only a short way, for there were many mouths to share it with, and the thirst soon became as bad as ever. Several of the regiment fell out from faintness, and we made frequent halts to rest and let the stragglers come up. At last we reached the top of Leith Hill. It is a striking spot, being the highest point in the south of England. The view from it is splendid, and most lovely did the country look this summer day, although the grass was brown from the long drought. It was a great relief to get from the dusty road on to the common, and at the top of the hill there was a refreshing breeze. We could see now, for the first time, the whole of our division. Our own regiment did not muster more than 500, for it contained a large number of Government office men who had been detained, like Danvers, for duty in town, and others were not much larger; but the militia regiment was very strong, and the whole division, I was told, mustered nearly five thousand rank and file. We could see other troops also in extension of our division, and could count a couple of field-batteries of Royal Artillery, besides some heavy guns, belonging to the volunteers apparently, drawn by cart-horses. The cooler air, the sense of numbers, and the evident strength of the position we held, raised our spirits, which, I am not ashamed to say, had all the morning been depressed. It was not that we were not eager to close with the enemy, but that the counter-marching and halting ominously betokened a vacillation of purpose in those who had the guidance of affairs. Here in two days the invaders had got more than twenty miles inland, and nothing effectual had been done to stop them. And the ignorance in which we volunteers, from the colonel downwards, were kept of their movements, filled us with uneasiness. We could not but depict to ourselves the enemy as carrying out all the while firmly his well-considered scheme of attack, and contrasting it with our own uncertainty of purpose. The very silence with which his advance appeared to be conducted filled us with mysterious awe. Meanwhile the day wore on, and we became faint with hunger, for we had eaten nothing since daybreak. No provisions came up, and there were no signs of any commissariat officers. It seems that when we were at the Waterloo station a whole trainful of provisions was drawn up there, and our colonel proposed that one of the trucks should be taken off and attached to our train, so that we might have some food at hand; but the officer in charge an assistant-controller I think they called him, this control department was a newfangled affair which did us almost as much harm as the enemy in the long-run, said his orders were to keep all the stores together, and that he couldn't issue any without authority from the head of his department. So we had to go without. Those who had tobacco smoked, indeed there is no solace like a pipe under such circumstances. The militia regiment, I heard afterwards, had two days' provisions in their haversacks; it was we volunteers who had no haversacks, and nothing to put in them. All this time, I should tell you, while we were lying on the grass with our arms piled, the General, with the brigadiers and staff, was riding about slowly from point to point of the edge of the common, looking out with his glass towards the south valley. Orderlies and staff-officers were constantly coming, and about three o'clock there arrived up a road that led towards Horsham a small body of lancers and a regiment of yeomanry, who had, it appears, been out in advance, and now drew up a short way in front of us in column facing to the south. Whether they could see anything in their front I could not tell, for we were behind the crest of the hill ourselves, and so could not look into the valley below; but shortly afterwards the assembly sounded. Commanding officers were called out by the General, and received some brief instructions; and the column began to march again towards London, the militia this time coming last in our brigade. A rumour regarding the object of this counter-march soon spread through the ranks. The enemy was not going to attack us here, but was trying to turn the position on both sides, one column pointing to Reigate, the other to Aldershot; and so we must fall back and take up a position at Dorking. The line of the great chalk range was to be defended. A large force was concentrating at Guildford, another at Reigate, and we should find supports at Dorking. The enemy would be awaited in these positions. Such, so far as we privates could get at the facts, was to be the plan of operations. Down the hill, therefore, we marched. From one or two points we could catch a brief sight of the railway in the valley below running from Dorking to Horsham. Men in red were working upon it here and there. They were the Royal Engineers, someone said, breaking up the line. On we marched. The dust seemed worse than ever. In one village through which we passed, I forget the name now, there was a pump on the green. Here we stopped and had a good drink; and passing by a large farm, the farmer's wife and two or three of her maids stood at the gate and handed us hunches of bread and cheese out of some baskets. I got the share of a bit, but the bottom of the good woman's baskets must soon have been reached. Not a thing else was to be had till we got to Dorking about six o'clock; indeed most of the farmhouses appeared deserted already. On arriving there we were drawn up in the street, and just opposite was a baker's shop. Our fellows asked leave at first by twos and threes to go in and buy some loaves, but soon others began to break off and crowd into the shop, and at last a regular scramble took place. If there had been any order preserved, and a regular distribution arranged, they would no doubt have been steady enough, but hunger makes men selfish; each man felt that his stopping behind would do no good, he would simply lose his share; so it ended by almost the whole regiment joining in the scrimmage, and the shop was cleared out in a couple of minutes; while as for paying, you could not get your hand into your pocket for the crush. The colonel tried in vain to stop the row; some of the officers were as bad as the men. Just then a staff-officer rode by; he could scarcely make way for the crowd, and was pushed against rather rudely, and in a passion he called out to us to behave properly, like soldiers, and not like a parcel of roughs. "Oh, blow it, governor," said Dick Wake, "you aren't a-going to come between a poor cove and his grub." Wake was an articled attorney, and, as we used to say in those days, a cheeky young chap, although a good-natured fellow enough. At this speech, which was followed by some more remarks of the sort from those about him, the staff-officer became angrier still. "Orderly," cried he to the lancer riding behind him," take that man to the provost-marshal. As for you, sir," he said, turning to our colonel, who sat on his horse silent with astonishment, "if you don't want some of your men shot before their time, you and your precious officers had better keep this rabble in a little better order"; and poor Dick, who looked crestfallen enough, would certainly have been led off at the tail of the sergeant's horse, if the brigadier had not come up and arranged matters, and marched us off to the hill beyond the town. This incident made us both angry and crestfallen. We were annoyed at being so roughly spoken to: at the same time we felt we had deserved it, and were ashamed of the misconduct. Then, too, we had lost confidence in our colonel, after the poor figure he cut in the affair. He was a good fellow, the colonel, and showed himself a brave one next day; but he aimed too much at being popular, and didn't understand a bit how to command. To resume, We had scarcely reached the hill above the town, which we were told was to be our bivouac for the night, when the welcome news came that a food-train had arrived at the station; but there were no carts to bring the things up, so a fatigue-party went down and carried back a supply to us in their arms, loaves, a barrel of rum, packets of tea, and joints of meat, abundance for all; but there was not a kettle or a cooking-pot in the regiment, and we could not eat the meat raw. The colonel and officers were no better off. They had arranged to have a regular mess, with crockery, steward, and all complete, but the establishment never turned up, and what had become of it no one knew. Some of us were sent back into the town to see what we could procure in the way of cooking utensils. We found the street full of artillery, baggage-waggons, and mounted officers, and volunteers shopping like ourselves; and all the houses appeared to be occupied by troops. We succeeded in getting a few kettles and saucepans, and I obtained for myself a leather bag, with a strap to go over the shoulder, which proved very handy afterwards; and thus laden, we trudged back to our camp on the hill, filling the kettles with dirty water from a little stream which runs between the hill and the town, for there was none to be had above. It was nearly a couple of miles each way; and, exhausted as we were with marching and want of rest, we were almost too tired to eat. The cooking was of the roughest, as you may suppose; all we could do was to cut off slices of the meat and boil them in the saucepans, using our fingers for forks. The tea, however, was very refreshing; and, thirsty as we were, we drank it by the gallon. Just before it grew dark, the brigade-major came round, and, with the adjutant, showed our colonel how to set a picket in advance of our line a little way down the face of the hill. It was not necessary to place one, I suppose, because the town in our front was still occupied with troops; but no doubt the practice would be useful. We had also a quarter guard, and a line of sentries in front and rear of our line, communicating with those of the regiments on our flanks. Firewood was plentiful, for the hill was covered with beautiful wood; but it took some time to collect it, for we had nothing but our pocket-knives to cut down the branches with. So we lay down to sleep. My company had no duty, and we had the night undisturbed to ourselves; but, tired though I was, the excitement and the novelty of the situation made sleep difficult. And although the night was still and warm, and we were sheltered by the woods, I soon found it chilly with no better covering than my thin dust-coat, the more so as my clothes, saturated with perspiration during the day, had never dried; and before daylight I woke from a short nap, shivering with cold, and was glad to get warm with others by a fire. I then noticed that the opposite hills on the south were dotted with fires; and we thought at first they must belong to the enemy, but we were told that the ground up there was still held by a strong rear-guard of regulars, and that there need be no fear of a surprise. At the first sign of dawn the bugles of the regiments sounded the reveille, and we were ordered to fall in, and the roll was called. About twenty men were absent, who had fallen out sick the day before; they had been sent up to London by train during the night, I believe. After standing in column for about half an hour, the brigade-major came down with orders to pile arms and stand easy; and perhaps half an hour afterwards we were told to get breakfast as quickly as possible and to cook a day's food at the same time. This operation was managed pretty much in the same way as the evening before, except that we had our cooking-pots and kettles ready. Meantime there was leisure to look around, and from where we stood there was a commanding view of one of the most beautiful scenes in England. Our regiment was drawn up on the extremity of the ridge which runs from Guildford to Dorking. This is indeed merely a part of the great chalk-range which

The case for Trump Victor Davis Hanson. Copyright 2019 by Victor Davis Hanson Library of Congress Control Number: 2018968200 ISBN 978-1-5416-7354-0 (hardcover), ISBN 978-1-5416-7353-3 (ebook) ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Victor Davis Hansonis the Martin and Illie Anderson senior fellow in classics and military history at the Hoover Institution, Stanford University, and a professor emeritus of classics at California State University, Fresno. He is the author of more than two dozen books, ranging in topics from ancient Greece to modern America, most recentlyThe Second World Wars: How the First Global Conflict Was Fought and Won. He lives in Selma, California. PREFACE. The Case for Trumpexplains why Donald J. Trump won the 2016 election, and why I and 62,984,827 other Americans, 46 percent of the popular vote, supported him on Election Day. I also hope readers of the book will learn why Trump’s critics increasingly despise rather than just oppose him. Often their venom reveals as much about themselves and their visions for the country as it does about their opposition to the actual record of governance of the mercurial Trump. Donald Trump ran as an abject outsider. He is now our first American president without either prior political or military experience. Frustrated voters in 2016 saw that unique absence of a political résumé as a plus, not a drawback, and so elected a candidate deemed to have no chance of becoming president. The near-septuagenarian billionaire candidate, unlike his rivals in the primaries, did not need any money, and had little requirement in the primaries to raise any from others. Name recognition was no problem. He already was famous, or rather notorious. He took risks, given that he did not care whether the coastal elite hated his guts. These realities unexpectedly proved advantages, given that much of the country instead wanted someone, perhaps almost anyone, to ride in and fix things that compromised political professionals would not dare do. With Trump, anything was now felt by his backers to be doable. His sometimes scary message was that what could not be fixed could be dismantled. Introduction. MEET DONALD J. TRUMP. Ordinary men usually manage public affairs better than their more gifted fellows. Thucydides,History of the Peloponnesian War, spoken by Cleon, son of Cleaenetus. On June 16, 2015, voters met sixty-nine-year-old flamboyant billionaire, and now Republican presidential candidate, Donald J. Trump at his own eponymous Manhattan high-rise. The outsider offered no apologies for promising to be the first successful presidential candidate to have no political experience. Trump came down on his escalator, ready for the beginning of a nonending war with the press and civil strife within his party. He postured like Caesar easily crossing the forbidden Rubicon and forcing an end to the old politics as usual. Trump arrived with few if any campaign handlers. He soon bragged that he preferred an unorthodox small staff to ensure immunity from political contamination altogether. He boasted that he would pay for his own campaign. “I’m using my own money. I’m not using the lobbyists. I’m not using donors. I don’t care. I’m really rich.” But if the legendarily parsimonious billionaire planned to use mostly his own funds, then he was likely to run the most outspent presidential campaign in history. Sure enough, by Election Day, Hillary Clinton would raise almost half a billion dollars more than Donald Trump’s roughly 600 million dollars and still lose the Electoral College vote. Trump seemed oddly naïve about the reality that in presidential politics the rub is not so much about having lots of your own money, but rather the ability to get lots more of other people’s money. What followed was the strangest presidential candidate’s announcement speech in memory. Trump’s stream-of-consciousness talk went on and off, and back on, script. Reporters were stunned but also mesmerized by his lowbrow, sometimes crude tone and its content. Chapter Two. TRUMPISM. A civil war is going to break out inside the Republican Party along the old trench lines of the Goldwater-Rockefeller wars of the 1960s, a war for the heart and soul and future of the party. Patrick J. Buchanan,Where the Right Went Wrong. To leverage the cultural and class divide, to win the Republican primaries and to fuel a general election bid, Trump zoomed in on a number of signature issues. All of them at various times had been the haphazard property of earlier right-wing and, on occasion, left-wing populists. But from the moment that Trump announced his candidacy, he monotonously hammered these concerns, as if they were uniquely novel and his own throughout the campaign, the presidential transition, and his first two years in office. Even more unusual, what Trump ran on in 2015 to 16, he almost immediately sought to implement as president in 2017 to 18. That consistency rallied his base. It also astonished his critics, who privately had consoled themselves after his victory along the lines of “at least Trump cannot be serious.” But he was. And he made that clear with a number of agendas. Candidate and then president Trump faulted Bush’s Republicans as much as Obama’s Democrats for optional, costly, and inconsequential wars, from Iraq to Libya. For Trump, the objection was not that intervening abroad was necessarily immoral. Rather, such interventions were allegedly fought for ungrateful others, at the expense of Americans at home, especially the working classes. In political terms, Trump decided to run against much of the current Washington bipartisan foreign policy establishment and the previous three administrations that had intervened in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya. When Trump serially complained, “We don’t win wars anymore,” he did not mean just that the United States should be more muscular in finishing conflicts. Specifically, America should fight more reactively than preemptively, but only where America can realistically win. “Well, I’ll tell you what, I don’t mind fighting,” Trump conceded in February 2016, “but you have got to win and number one, we don’t win wars, we just fight, we just fight. It’s like a big, like you’re vomiting, just fight, fight, fight.” Chapter Three. “MODERN DAY PRESIDENTIAL”. I saw that Philip himself, with whom our conflict lay, for the sake of empire and absolute power had had his eye knocked out, his collar-bone broken, his hand and his leg maimed, and was ready to resign any part of his body that Fortune chose to take from him, provided that with what remained he might live in honor and glory. Demosthenes,On the Crown. We have seen that Trump fixated on a preexisting and receptive swing-state constituency. Then he crafted the right issues both to fire it up and yet also to transcend it. There is, however, still something missing in the decipherment of the Trump enigma. It is unlikely thatanyother politician could have followed the winning Trump formula (or would have proven as president so chaotically conservative had he been elected). In other words, Trump the person, warts and all, vulgar, uncouth, divisive, and yet often empathetic and concerned, despiteor because of his storied past, must explain much of his rise to power. Trump the person, then, transcended his issues. How and why Trump overshadowed his ideas and won the Republican nomination and election is the subject of this chapter. Apparently, a third of the voters saw him as something analogous to chemotherapy, which after all is used to combat something far worse than itself. Such toxicity was felt to be needed to kill the cancer, meaning the politics and bureaucracy of the proverbial deep state, even as the dosage might nearly kill the patient (the Trump voter) during the taxing therapy (the 24-7 media obsession with all things Trump). Trump supporters certainly did not want another palliative of McCain or Romney aspirin. And they no longer believed that a more conservative-sounding version of House Speaker Paul Ryan would be a successful substitute for the current Paul Ryan. Chapter Four. DEMOCRATIC TRIBALISM. There exists also in the human heart a depraved taste for equality, which impels the weak to attempt to lower the powerful to their own level, and reduces men to prefer equality in slavery to inequality with freedom. Alexis de Tocqueville,Democracy in America. In 2016, Hillary Clinton spent a record 250 million dollars in negative advertising against Donald Trump to paint him as a sexual predator, a colluder with Vladimir Putin, a tax cheat, a dishonest developer, a bigot, an alt-right racist, a xenophobe, a dark populist, a neofascist, a Machiavellian manipulator, a nut who might blow up the world, or alternatively a buffoon, a joke, a mess, and a slob. Hillary’s main message was “I am not the ogre Trump!” Yet running just against a presidential candidate’s person, rather than his ideas, his agendas, and his party, has not usually worked in recent American history. Walter Mondale was a charismatic, progressive, well-informed former senator and vice president when he ran in 1984 against incumbent Ronald Reagan. Yet Mondale offered only a vague liberal agenda. Instead, hedefined his campaign mostly as against Reagan, the supposedly heartless rich man’s lackey and ill-informed bumbler abroad. When the economy grew at over an annualized rate of 7 percent from November 1983 to November 1984, the trope of Reagan as dunce or corporate shill evaporated. Mondale had little alternative vision. He lost in the seventh-greatest landslide in American history. Republican Senate majority leader and former vice-presidential candidate Bob Dole had no real compelling message in 1996. In contrast, incumbent President Clinton had recently triangulated between Left and Right. He entertained some conservative ideas as he got the economy back on track and picked up blue-collar voters. Third-party candidate Ross Perot again siphoned off some conservative votes. Dole was demolished. Chapter Five. REPUBLICANS LOSE WHILE WINNING. One day, all will be well, this is our hope. All is well today, that is the illusion. Voltaire,Poem on the Lisbon Disaster. The national Republican establishment too often started with a weak agenda and then presented it even more weakly. The Republicans’ crisis was that their orthodoxy did not appeal any longer to those in swing states of the Electoral College that increasingly chose the president. And to the extent that it might, the usual way their messengers delivered it confirmed that it would not. During the 2016 primary campaign, most Republican candidates were privately depressed by the paradox that their party was winning at nearly every level while losing the presidency. Indeed, of the prior six presidential elections (and 2016 would be no different), Republicans had lost the popular vote in five of them. Yet, as noted, in just eight years Obama in some sense had all but wrecked the Democratic Party, at least for the next two years following his presidency. Remember that over his tenurethe party lost seventy-nine House seats and twelve senators. With them vanished a ruling majority in both houses of Congress and any chance to transform the Supreme Court. The Democratic Party’s local and state implosions were even greater. In 2009, Obama’s first year in office, Democrats controlled 59 percent of state legislatures. But by 2017, they had majorities in just 31 percent. Not since the 1920s had Democrats been weaker, losing thirteen governorships, to retain a mere sixteen of fifty. Nationwide, they had suffered net losses of about eleven hundred local offices. As a general rule, political parties tend to lose down-ballot races when they hold the presidency. But rarely had there been such a disconnect between presidential popularity and party failure, although the verdict is out whether Trump eventually will trump the Obama model of getting reelected while losing the Congress. What were the common explanations for these contradictions, and how would the latter play out in 2016 for Republicans, and Trump in particular? There were a number of them. Chapter Six. THE ANCIEN RÉGIME. Whether the mask is labeled fascism, democracy, or dictatorship of the proletariat, our great adversary remains the apparatus, the bureaucracy, the police, the military. Simone Weil, “Reflections on War”. On September 5, 2018, theNew York Timespublished an anonymous editorial by a supposed “senior official” in the Trump administration. In astounding fashion, the unnamed writer claimed that he, she was part of a legion of administration appointees and government officials who were actively working to undermine the Trump presidency by overriding his orders, keeping information from an unknowing Trump, or acting independently of his directives. Or as Anonymous unapologetically put it: Trump is facing a test to his presidency unlike any faced by a modern American leader. It’s not just that the special counsel looms large. Or that the country is bitterly divided over Mister Trump’s leadership. Oreven that his party might well lose the House to an opposition hell-bent on his downfall. The dilemma, which he does not fully grasp, is that many of the senior officials in his own administration are working diligently from within to frustrate parts of his agenda and his worst inclinations. I would know. I am one of them. TheTimesauthor then continues by confessing to a sort of slow-motion coup to undermine the Trump presidency: It may be cold comfort in this chaotic era, but Americans should know that there are adults in the room. We fully recognize what is happening. And we are trying to do what’s right even when Donald Trump won’t. The result is a two-track presidency. The writer then lists the supposed Trump sins and offers the following rationale for such extraordinary subversion on the part of self-elected conspirators: This isn’t the work of the so-called deep state. It’s the work of the steady state. Given the instability many witnessed, there were early whispers within the cabinet of invoking the 25th Amendment, which would start a complex process for removing the president. But no one wanted to precipitate a constitutional crisis. So we will do what we can to steer the administration in the right direction until, one way or another, it’s over. The bigger concern is not what Mister Trump has done to the presidency but rather what we as a nation have allowed him to do to us. We have sunk low with him and allowed our discourse to be stripped of civility. Chapter Seven. TRUMP ON DECLINE. The Western world has lost its civic courage. Such a decline in courage is particularly noticeable among the ruling and intellectual elite, causing an impression of a loss of courage by the entire society. Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Harvard commencement address, 1978. None of the more than twenty candidates running for president in 2016 claimed that America was in good shape, except perhaps Hillary Clinton, who advertised herself as the first female president and the progressive guarantor of Barack Obama’s successful eight years. Yet Donald Trump’s notion of decline was different from both the pessimism of his Republican rivals and Bernie Sanders’s vision of a wretched society in need of a radical socialist cure. Instead, Trump’s upbeat “Make America Great Again” was a simplistic tripartite message about decline: America was once great. Now it is not. But under Trump it will be great again. Trump promised such renewal on the first day of his campaign, as he has continued to do almost every day since. But has Trump ever fully defined what he meant by “decline”? Were Americans really materially or spiritually poorer than in the 1990s, the 1970s, or the 1950s? And wereallAmericans so suffering, or just half the country? Why did the richest generation in the history of civilization, or again at least half of it, find Trump’s gloomy diagnosis of decline and his therapy of renewal so persuasive, even optimistic? Trump, of course, was saying nothing new in a presidential campaign. Almosteverypresidential candidate has run on the idea of an America gone wrong under the incumbent. Usually the fault was due to someone of the opposite political party, more recently from the Left’s “A Time for Greatness” (John F. Kennedy, 1960), “To Begin Anew” (Eugene McCarthy, 1968), and “Come Home, America” (George McGovern, 1972) to the Right’s “Let’s Make America Great Again” (Ronald Reagan, 1980) or Mitt Romney’s “Restore Our Future” (2012). Ronald Reagan started off his 1980 campaign with a pre-Trumpian rallying call: “For those who’ve abandoned hope, we’ll restore hope and we’ll welcome them into a great national crusadeto make America great again.” Chapter Eight. NEVER HILLARY. She was not happy, she never had been. Whence came this insufficiency in life, this instantaneous turning to decay of everything on which she leaned? Gustave Flaubert,Madame Bovary. How strange that Democrats during the primary were worried that Hillary Clinton was the only candidate who could win the presidency, while Republicans were equally convinced that Donald Trump was the only one of their own who could lose the general election. More likely,anymajor Democratic figure other than Clinton might have won, andallother Republicans other than Trump might have likely lost. Yet if the Republicans were to nominate Donald Trump, then the sins of Hillary Clinton uniquely would cancel out his own. And if Trump were to run as the fresh outsider sent in to drain the swamp, then Clinton was the most likely among Democrats to represent the tired landlord of the miasma. If Trump seemed too old and unfit, then Clinton all the more so. And if rumors of Russians tainted Trump’s campaign, then they were predated by Russian operatives angling withthe Clintons throughout Hillary’s government service. In some sense, Hillary Clinton created the Trump presidency. So aside from Trump’s contentions that the United States was in decline and that only if Americans elected him could this regression be arrested, there was the matter of Hillary Clinton, his 2016 campaign opponent, and by July the only impediment between Trump and the presidency. Trump certainly campaigned on issues. We have seen that he embraced existential themes and concrete wedge issues. And he had a divided and volatile electorate to leverage further. But Trump also had the controversial opponent Hillary Clinton, or rather the explicit argument that whatever Trump was, he certainly was not Hillary Clinton. The two were certainly a pair of contradictions in almost every aspect. Physically, Trump’s bulk fueled a monstrous energy; Hillary’s girth sapped her strength. The reckless Trump did not drink; the careful Hillary freely did so. Hillary’s “good-taste” carefully tailored suits and tastefully coiffed hair did not seem natural. Trump’s “bad-taste” mile-long tie, orange tan, and combed-over yellow mane appeared paradoxically authentic. Chapter Nine. THE NEW, OLD CRUDE MESSENGER. “I approve of almost everything he has done,” my son remarked, “and I disapprove of almost everything he has said.” Joseph Epstein,WSJOpinion, February 27, 2018. In an earlier chapter, the “Modern Day Presidential,” we saw how Trump had used his tough tweets and unconventional speech and behavior to his advantage. But was there also a downside in the way he talked and acted that might nullify his otherwise undeniable achievements, ensuring that he rarely won a majority approval rating from the public? Everyone agreed that Donald Trump could become crude. A third of his supporters after the election expressed a personal dislike for Trump. But few could agree on whether his crudity was unprecedented in presidential history, whether it was a symptom of a crass society, or of an electronically wired world in which presidential burps became internet headlines, or whether it was long overdue retaliation. The debates framedquestions about whether Trump the messenger was separate from Trump’s message, and whether Trump was new crude or just a newer version of the old crude. For the Left, Trump’s supposedly odious character, his comportment, vocabulary, feuds and fights, was a force multiplier of his purportedly odious message, a veritable repeal of much of the Obama agenda between 2009 and 2017. Yet for most of the Never Trump Right, the reprobate Trump messenger cancelled out what otherwise might have been his tolerably conservative message. And as we have seen previously, for nearly half the country who voted for Trump, his message was usually indistinguishable from Trump himself, or rather impossible without him. The common denominator of all three of these positions is that Trump was not a neutral actor or subordinate to his message. In truth, he was one of the most controversial political figures in American post-war history, and he was inseparable from Trumpism. Chapter Ten. END TRUMP! “F*ck you. F*ck you. Yes, I’m angry. Yes, I’m outraged. Yes, I have thought an awful lot about blowing up the White House.” Madonna, Women’s March on Washington address, Inauguration Day, 2017. Never in the history of the American presidency has there been such an immediate and sustained effort by the opposition to remove an elected president before completing his first term. The growing furor against Bill Clinton that sought to impeach him came halfway in his second term. As we have seen, the existential hatred for Trump was due to a variety of reasons, the shock of Hillary Clinton blowing the 2016 election following the progressive eight years of Barack Obama, the unpredictability and volatility of Trump, the breakneck speed at which Trump sought to undo the Obama legacy, and the progressives’ belief that noble ends excused any means to achieve them. But whatever the cause and manifestations of Trump hatred, the efforts to delegitimize or even destroy him seemed to have ushered in a veritable second American civil war. Donald J. Trump was elected to the presidency on November 8, 2016. He lost the popular vote to Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton by a 48.2 percent to 46.1 percent margin, or by some 2.8 million votes. Yet Trump won decisively in the Electoral College with a vote of 304 to 227, thefifthtime in American history that the winner received fewer popular votes than did the loser. Almost immediately, Trump-elect was met with intense and multifaceted protests. Much worse would come by Inauguration Day. Chapter Eleven TRUMP, THE TRAGIC HERO? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. and therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. , John Donne,Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions The very idea that Donald Trump could, even in a perverse way, be heroic may appall half the country. Nonetheless, one way of squaring both Trump’s personal excesses and his accomplishments is that his traditionally nonpresidential behavior may have been valuable in bringing long-overdue changes in foreign and domestic policy. Tragic heroes, as they have been portrayed from Homer’sIliadand Sophocles’s plays (e.g.,Ajax, Antigone, Oedipus Rex, Philoctetes) to the modern western film, are not intrinsically noble. Much less are they likeable. They can often be obnoxious and petty, if not dangerous, especially to those around them. These mercurial sorts rarely end up well, and on occasion neither do those in their vicinity. Oedipus was rudely narcissistic. In the filmHombre, antihero John Russell (Paul Newman) proved arrogant and off-putting. Tragic heroes are often unstable loners. They are aloof by preference and due to society’s understandable unease with them. Sophocles’s Ajax’s soliloquies about a rigged system and the lack of recognition accorded his undeniable accomplishments is Trumpian to the core. They are akin to the sensational rumors that late at night Trump is holed up alone, brooding, eating fast food, apart from his wife, and watching Fox News shows. Chapter Twelve MISTER TRUMP GOES TO WASHINGTON Fortunately for the country, flawed as Trump is by aberrant personality defects, overweening self-centeredness, an inadequate attention span, and an inability to deal with criticism except in the angriest terms, not everything hinges on the president, even if, at age seventy-eight, assuming he had won a second term, he did somehow decide he wanted a third. , Michael Nelson,Trump’s First Year Donald Trump’s initial two-year record, like most presidencies, can be evaluated by lots of different criteria: from economic performance at home to statecraft abroad; as well as his legislative record, presidential executive orders and cabinet policies; judicial, economic, and political appointments; party losses or gains; a general sense of national purpose or lack of same, and his polls. Former advisor Stephen Bannon purportedly had a whiteboard in his office with one column showingpromises made in the campaign, the other how many of them had been fulfilled. By late 2018, two questions arose about the state of the United States. One, were things seen as better or worse than in 2016? Two, to what degree was President Trump responsible for the change? The first question is answered below. The second is made easy by the stark antitheses between Trump and Obama. Just as Obama was not a centrist Bill Clinton, so too Trump was not an establishmentarian President Bush. In fact, the Trump and Obama agendas were polar opposites. What Obama did, Trump methodically sought to undo, from the Affordable Care Act to the Iran deal. For every Obama executive order, there arose a Trump antithetical executive order. And for every mellifluous Obama put-down of an opponent, there was a cruder and sharper Trump riposte. Obama sought to manage the economy; Trump to free it. The former believed in the therapeutic view of human nature; the latter the tragic, and acted accordingly with both friends and enemies. In other words, Trump framed his presidency in antithesis to 2009, 17, in hopes that the country could judge for itself under which of the two administrations it was better off. Economically, the verdict was mostly unambiguous. PART FIVE. EPILOGUE. TRUMP TRUDGES ON. The 2018 Midterms and Beyond. As 2018 ended, the country remained as bitterly divided as when Trump entered office in January 2017. The general fault lines remained unchanged. A mostly upscale and coastal urban professional and educated elite was politically aligned with minorities and the poor. They were usually opposed by suburban conservatives and a rural and small-town middle class in the nation’s interior. Trump had neither expanded his appeal to include more independents or suburban women, nor had he lost a scintilla of his rock-hard base. Consequently, the 2018 post-election red-blue schema of congressional districts more or less resembled the Electoral College map of 2016: a sea of red in the interior of America was more than matched in population size by the far smaller blue geography of the two coastal corridors.

Rahan. Episode Thirty Six. The Monkey Men. The season-of-yellow-leaves" had arrived and the son of Crao watched these golden butterflies fluttering in the wind. Then will come the "Season-without-leaves". Then that of the "Green-leaves". The trees therefore live, like "Those-who-walk-upright"! His gaze fell on a large leaf that a breath had just flattened on the surface of the pond. They also know how to "crawl on water", he thought! Amused, he followed for a moment the race that seemed to be taking place between two leaves pushed by the wind. And they go faster than Rahan's Raft, he thought! Page Two: As the son of Crao thought of his raft which he had abandoned to cross this territory, a nearby noise arose. The "Two Horns" have returned! And indeed, as on the previous day, the antelopes approached fearfully from the pond. Maybe this time Rahan can kill one! Rahan not only wanted to appease his hunger, but also to protect himself from the rigors of the leafless season he knew was near. A skin of a "Two-horn" would allow it. He was only a few paces away from the animals when they sniffed the wind. And, like the day before, they took off at the very moment when the son of Crao leapt! It was again a desperate race in the thickets. Page Three: In the confusion of which the antelopes disappeared. Rahan does not run fast enough to catch the "Two Horns"! He will have to invent a trap! Annoyed, the son of the fierce ages returned to the pond where the leaves continued their course, slipping on the water, at the mercy of the wind. Unaware that his every move was being watched, he went back to carving the fragment of branch. He was as skillful as he was patient, and the wood gradually took the form of a knife. A knife that looked just like his own ivory knife. This was just a pastime to practice his dexterity. He knew this very well! The wooden blade was ineffective, even unusable! Page Four: This weapon would break at the first shock! But Rahan is happy to have been able to reproduce his knife! A squall blew over the pond, carrying away the dead leaves at breakneck speed. If Rahan was also running he would have killed a two-horned! An experienced hunter, the son of Crao had difficulty admitting having been twice defeated by the rapid antelopes. A good hunter must think and be tenacious, said Crao! He fingered the claw of his necklace which symbolized tenacity. Tomorrow, Rahan will find a way to kill a "Two-Horn"!! He must! As night fell, he gathered leaves and dead branches to build a fire. When sparks sprang from the flints, the being who was watching him, suddenly worried, retreated into the half-light. Page Five: For a long time, the son of fierce ages meditated. Rahan could dig a pit on the passage of the "Two-Horns". But he does not have the time! And then, the "Two-horns" are cunning beasts! They would sense this trap and would avoid it! He finally fell asleep and had a strange dream. In this dream he was challenging a dead leaf in a race! Did this sensation of water he felt in his dream suggest a plan? Maybe, because of this, he woke up with a start. Ra-ha-ha! Rahan has found it. Rahan knows how to overcome the mistrust of the "Two-horns"! The fire was still glowing and the morning mist floated over the pond where the dead leaves were still gliding. Page Six: The "Two-horns" always come back to drink at the same place! They sense Rahan lying in ambush in the thickets. And they flee! But they will not sense anything if he hides in the water, under the water!! This is where Rahan will be waiting for them! The son of Crao had spotted some clumps of reeds near which the antelopes came to drink. Playfully sticking the wooden cutlass in the soft earth of the bank. He jumped into the water. The being on the lookout growled in amazement. This enemy he did not dare to attack, this enemy who knew how to bring fire out of stones, this enemy who was now crawling on the water!! Page Seven: In ambush near the reeds, his ear glued to the ground, the son of fierce ages waited a long time. His heart beat faster when he finally heard the sound of hooves. The "two-horns" are back! The "Two-horns" are coming! Indeed, he caught a glimpse of the antelopes and let himself slide under the water, supple and silent as the gray grass snake. Let them come and drink! Quickly! Rahan will not be able to stay underwater for long! Let them come quickly! Quickly! The prudent beasts watched the bank. Their nostrils throbbed, trying to detect the smell of the man. Page Eight: The son of Crao, out of breath, felt the blood rush to his neck at times. He was going to emerge from the water when. The nostrils of a "Two-horned" punctured the surface above him! He divined the head of the beast bent over the water. And he suddenly uncoiled! Ra-ha-ha! His hands gripped the horns, suddenly pulling the large antelope into the pond! The second beast, terrified, was already far away. Rahan was more cunning, and faster than the "Two-horns"!! The antelope struggled furiously to regain the bank. The son of Crao knew that a single blow from his sharp horns would kill him. Page Nine: So he decided to complete this difficult aquatic melee as soon as possible. Ra-ha-ha! The ivory knife disappeared in the red fleece. A moment later, he was hoisting the "Two-horns" onto the bank. Rahan will be able to eat for many long days! And your skin will protect him from the bite of the cold! Somewhere in the thickets, the being remained, petrified. Where did the sun-haired-enemy get his power? An idea became embedded in the primitive’s brain. All the power of the enemy came from this magic object, this pointed and wonderfully polished object. Page Ten: Soon after the son of the fierce ages had skinned the "Two-horn". He carefully cleaned the skin, which was large and healthy. Then he dried it in the bright sun, stretched out on the ground. The wooden knife is still useful to Rahan! A little later. As soon as he regains his strength, Rahan will return to the shore he glimpsed yesterday. He will build a new Raft. And set off again on the "Great River”. In search of new lands! The meat was starting to grill gently. And spread around a delicious smell. A smell completely unknown to the being who spied on the son of Crao. Page Eleven: Rahan has time to look for some fresh water! The "Two-horns" will provide him with something to bring it back! One of the long hollow horns of the antelope could, in fact, serve as a receptacle. But only the inventive Rahan could attribute this function to it! He had been able to see how brackish the water in the pond was, so he started looking for a spring. Oh! Crao would not forgive this oversight!! Deprived of the ivory knife, he felt helpless for a moment. But the light lapping of a stream reassured him. Rahan does not need his weapon. When he has drawn the water. He will return to his fire! Page Twelve: He had just plunged the horn into pure water when the wind suddenly turned. And brought him the scent of a panther. No sooner had he turned his head than the beast leapt with all claws out! It was then that the son of the fierce ages showed his marvelous instinct. He let himself fall into the stream, and he raised the long, sharp horn. Ra-ha-ha! The clear water of the stream turned red. And, surprised to be still alive, Rahan freed himself. Everything can become a weapon in the hands of "Those-who-walk-upright"! Page Thirteen: Without this horn, Rahan would have joined the "Territory of Shadows"! But maybe, without the horn, Rahan would not have forgotten his knife! Guided by the scent of grilled meat, the son of Crao easily found his fire. He was planting the horn filled with fresh water in the ground when he froze in surprise. The quarter of antelope on the fire was gone! At the same time he noticed that the ivory knife, which held the skin taut. It too had disappeared! And it was then that he saw the being in the shadow of the trees. A frighteningly hairy being who devoured the grilled meat and wielded the precious ivory knife! Page Fourteen: The son of Crao had already met "Monkey-men" as close to "Those-who-walk-upright" as "Those-who-live-in-the-trees". This meat belongs to Rahan! It was he who killed the "Two-Horns"! Rahan will share the meat with you, but he wants you to return his knife! The being growled. He tossed the meat aside, and sat up, and clutched the ivory weapon fiercely. He wants to fight! Without a knife, Rahan is lost! Unless. Unless. This weapon lets him change things!!? The son of fierce ages rushed to the “Knife of Wood”, and snatched it from the ground. Could this primitive being approaching be deceived by appearances? Rahan did not know. But he no longer had a choice!! Page Fifteen: Gragh! Ra-ha-ha! The two adversaries collided, one armed with an ivory knife, the other with a derisory wooden one!! The ape-man's fury was countered by Rahan's flexibility and cunning. He avoided all the blows. And managed to trip the being, and to paralyze his weapon arm. Rahan could cut your throat! But he does not cut the throat of those who look so much like "those-who-walk-upright!" The wooden cutlass would break before penetrating the monstrously muscled chest. But the "Monkey-man" did not know this! He threw away the ivory weapon and his cries indicated that he was surrendering to his adversary. Rahan will not take your life!! Page Sixteen: The son of Crao leapt to retrieve his knife. Smashing the branches, the being was already disappearing into the forest. This territory where men are still beasts does not suit Rahan! Rahan is going back on the big river!! He had appeased his hunger and quenched his thirst when distant shouts arose. The monkey-man has alerted his people!! Far away in fact, the wild cries of a disturbed horde were punctuated with the description which one of them made of the “enemy-with-hair-the-color-of-the-sun". A breath of anguish swept through the great forest when the horde of "Monkey-Men" set off. From the thickets to the foliage, everyone knew that the horde was on a hunt to kill!! Page Seventeen: The son of Crao, however, haunted by the unceasing clamor had just reached the shore. The sea is stormy, but that was not what worried him. The "Monkey-men" will be here very soon! Rahan will not have time to build a Raft! The wind that was blowing from the forest, indicated to him the approach of danger. They are ten times more numerous than the fingers of the two hands! For the first time the son of the fierce ages did not have to turn his ivory knife on a rock to know where to direct his steps. Looking along this shore, he saw no other way out than the great river! This stump should float as well as a raft! Page Eighteen: But will "The Great River" accept Rahan? The waves rolled in, bringing the skiff back to the beach. And this beach was suddenly invaded by the horde of "Monkey-Men". Help Rahan "Great River!" At least take me! Quickly! Hurry up! But the stump, for a moment carried out to sea, was immediately brought back by the waves!! A hail of stones fell around the raft. Rahan would have liked to teach everything he knows to the "Ape-men". But it's impossible, impossible! He can leave them only one memory! The wooden knife he threw floated on the waves and was washed ashore. Page Nineteen: A moment later the "monkey-men" were fiercely fighting over this weapon! If the "Great River" does not carry me away, Rahan will be massacred like a beast! Despite the wind blowing out to sea, the waves kept bringing the skiff back. Ah! If Rahan could glide through the water as fast as yellow leaves! The son of Crao suddenly remembered his dream. The race where he was opposed by a dead leaf. The wind beating on this curled leaf. A dazzling idea sprang from his imagination. Could not it, like the leaf, provide a great grip on the wind? His pole! The skin of "Two-Horns"! It only took him a moment to wedge the pole in place, and find the best way to stretch the skin across it. Wind! Blow on the sheet of skin!! Page Twenty: The skin tightened, and swelled. And Rahan's victorious clamor burst into the wind! Ra-ha-ha! The raft glided over the waves, out to sea! Once again, his powers of observation, his imagination, his ability to take advantage of everything. Had saved the son of Crao! The "Monkey-men" ceased to fight, and contemplated with bewilderment this enemy who escaped them. An elusive enemy who knew how to beat fire from stones and control the wind!! This primitive horde thought, on this morning in the fierce ages, that their territory had been visited by a supernatural being! It was no such thing! If Rahan was more evolved than some of his kind, he was however only a man! And it was with the pride of belonging to the great horde of "Those-who-walk-upright" that he let himself be carried away by the wind to other shores, other mysteries, other adventures. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

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The Secret History of the Five Eyes By Richard Kerbaj.

Rahan. Episode Thirty five. The Sorcerer of the Full moon. Huddled in the tree he had chosen as his nocturnal refuge, Crao's son was awakened by worrisome murmurs. And he suddenly saw a strange silhouette looming against the moon, like that of a "Wampa", on lookout above the ridge. But it is not a "Wampa"! She is a witch! And those are going to carry their offerings!! Whispers arose from a group of hunters who passed under his refuge laden with quarters of meat. Page Two: It has been days and days since Rahan has encountered any hunters! He dominated his urge to challenge these men. Knowing how dangerous it was to disturb the customs of those-who-walk-upright. Rahan will find them later! Shortly after, the hunters deposited their offerings halfway up the hill. Then they fled while the witch waved her arms, like a "Wampa" ready to take flight. They were going back under the tree when Crao's son signaled his presence. Rahan greets you, brothers! Rahan is happy to finally meet men! The clan froze, petrified with dread. You lie! You are Sonaya! You took on the appearance of a hunter to. Show us your power! Page Three: The sorcerer on the hill had disappeared. We just brought you the Round Moon Offerings! What else do you expect from us, Sonaya!? They take Rahan for a wizard, thought Rahan! How can Rahan convince them that he is just a hunter like them!? The men, frightened, flowed back into the thickets, and they were absorbed by the darkness. With the day, their fear will dissipate. Rahan will prove to them that he is not Sonaya-the-sorcerer! The son of fierce ages could not find sleep. Why do "Those-who-walk-upright" flee or kill each other? He thought of all the clans he had been able to reconcile. He was thinking of the one of the "big men” that he had rid of a terrible monster. Page Four: Dawn came, and he followed the tracks of the hunters, that led to a wide river. He glimpsed huts on the other side. A little later. Rahan will not make it to the other side of the river alive! The "Piranes" will devour him! Worrying swarms on the surface proved that this river was infested by what Crao called "Piranes". These formidable little fish were capable of shredding a hunter in an instant down to a skeleton! Either Rahan must build a raft, or he must lure the "Piranes" to another prey! The son of Crao did not hesitate between the two solutions. A roaring panther loomed up behind him! That will satisfy the "Piranhas"! Page Five: The beast crouched. But his powerful leap was stopped by Rahan, who was very used to these fights. Ra-ha-ha! The ivory blade plunged only once into the ocellus side, striking down the panther! On the other side the hunters heard the victorious cry. Astonished, they saw the son of Crao throw the body of the beast into the river. And while. The multitudes of Piranhas sprang from all sides, throwing themselves voraciously on this prey. Rahan Dove in! Page Six: He knew his diversion would allow him time to swim to the other shore. He hoisted himself onto it, while the "Piranhas" still fought over the carcass of the panther. The men, worried, prepared to flee. Rahan is not a wizard! He just proved he is just a hunter, like you! If Rahan was Sonaya, as you believe, he would not have feared the "Piranhas"! He would have used his wizarding powers to drive them away! Overcoming his fears, the leader of the clan rushed forward. Fraukk may join "The Territories of Shadows"! But he will know if you are Sonaya or not! Page Seven: The club fell with such force that Rahan thought his chest was bursting. Ha-ha-ha! So you are vulnerable!! Aiming for the head of his unconscious adversary, Fraukk was about to finish him off with another blow. When. Stop Fraukk! Stop! Maybe Sonaya is cunning! If you strike again, their curse will fall on us all!! Another hunter interrupted. The next night will bring us the truth! We all know Sonaya can take on a lot of appearances. But they cannot appear in several. Places at the same time. If Sonaya appears on the hill tonight, and if this man is still among us, he will have told the truth! Page Eight: When the son of Crao came to, he was tied to a Baobab, away from the village. Rahan should have run away from this clan! Why does he always come back to "Those-who-walk-upright"!? Fraukk has spared Rahan and has left him his knife! Would he still think Rahan is a sorcerer?? The doubt, indeed, remained among the men of the clan. Why do you come with the round moon to haunt our hills, Sonaya? Why demand meat as an offering, Sonaya? Rahan is not Sonaya! Rahan is Rahan, the son of Crao!! We will find out tonight!! When the "Round Moon” shines!! The man who pointed to the crest of the hill, was robust like all of his people. Page Nine: Rahan has encountered few clans whose hunters were all so strong! But why do they wait for the round moon to decide his fate? The son of the fierce ages tried, in vain, to free himself from his bonds. When the sun disappeared, his bruised wrists were still securely bound! As the grayness of twilight filled the sky, he saw the hunters in the village gather around their leader, Fraukk. And he heard a voice near him! I come to deliver you, Sonaya! But you will take me with you to the hills! The man who emerged from the half-light clutched a flint. His right arm hung lifeless, certainly broken. Arke was trampled by a "Long Nose". Arke is no longer useful to the clan! Page Ten: Because his arm is dead, Arke will be fed to the "Piranhas"!! That is why Arke wants to go with you Sonaya!! The poorly formed flint hardly cut the bonds of the captive. Take that knife, Arke! These vines will be cut faster! Oh! I Knew Sonaya had magic weapons! The ivory blade had, with a single blow, cut through the bonds! You are free, Sonaya! Why do you not fight Farukk?? You have the power! Eh? Er? Later. It cost the son of Crao to abuse his savior's trust. But now was not the time for explanations. To the rafts, Arke, Quick! Quickly! Page Eleven: Fraukk, however harangued his clan. The Round Moon will soon crown the hill! We will then know if the captive lied. Oh! Turning his gaze to the Boabab, the chief observed Rahan's disappearance. So it was Sonaya! Only a wizard can break free without a trace! Playing the game to sow doubt, the son of Crao had indeed taken away and thrown his bonds into the river. The night is with us Arke! Let us enjoy it!! The Raft was in the middle of the river when it hit a rock. If Rahan knew how to stay on the skiff. It was not the same for Arke, whose right arm was broken. Clinging to the logs, the unfortunate man flailed in the swarm of "Piranhas" rising from the depths. Page Twelve: Rahan snatched up the man from whose legs the voracious fish clung. The ivory knife sliced off the heads, and broke the jaws of the most tenacious "Piranhas". Arke will be saved! Rahan knows the herbs that heal bites! Afterwards, on the other bank, Crao's son was nursing his companion. The moon, huge and round, seemed to rest on the hill. Arke screamed when the silhouette evoking a "Wampa" was cut out there. Sonaya! The sorcerer of the "Round Moon"!! But if Sonaya is up there, on the hill, and if you are near Arke. It must be that you are not Sonaya! Who are you, then! A simple hunter like you, Arke! A hunter who has only one desire tonight. To discover the secret of Sonaya!! Page Thirteen: As soon as he had bandaged his companion's legs, Rahan rushed towards the hill, as if climbing to an assault on the moon. When he was a hundred paces from the sorcerer who was flapping their "Wings" he understood that these were only large deer skins. At fifty paces, he made out a face with a hooked nose, with long hair falling halfway down the body. At twenty steps, he realizes that this hideous face was only a mask of painted terracotta. That was when he sat up and launched his challenge. No River Clan hunter has dared come so close to you, Sonaya! If Rahan does, it is because he does not believe in the supernatural powers of wizards! Page Fourteen: Sonaya, plunging into a ravine, disappeared from view. He then jumped towards the ridge. And the clan of Fraukk, from the river bank, saw him take the place, of the missing wizard, in front of the round moon. The unknown man was indeed Sonaya! By striking him, Fraukk defied the spirits! Fraukk will die and his clan will experience famine! And while Fraukk lamented. The son of the fierce ages was chasing the wizard. Do not run away, Sonaya! Rahan knows how to catch up with you, even in your Lair!! At the entrance to the cave, the sorcerer pulled out a spear stuck in the ground. Do not try to kill Rahan Wizard!! Rahan will have to defend his life!! Page Fifteen: The spear, armed with a coarse flint, mewed in the ears of Crao's son. Zium! The Sorcerer was about to grab a second when Rahan, quicker, threw his knife. Zlang! Rahan did not want to steal your life, Sonaya! But the savage law orders him to defend his own! But! Oh! A shiver ran through the son of fierce ages. Despite the ivory blade stuck in his heart, the sorcerer shouted orders!! He was then plunged into a nightmare. Puny and deformed beings rose from the cave. Some had one arm amputated, others were skipping around without a leg. Rahan has lost his mind! Help me Crao! Page Sixteen: This fantastic pack surrounded him, mastered him, and dragged him towards the fire that was burning at the bottom of the cave. No one has the right to unveil the domain of Sonaya! But you are not part of the clan of the river and you were perhaps unaware of this law. Beneath the frightening mask, the voice was calm, almost soft. A staggering man suddenly appeared at the entrance to the cave. It was Arke! I implore your protection, Sonaya! As for Rahan, he is a loyal and brave hunter! He fought Farukk and saved me from the Piranhas, to lead me to you! Since a "Long Nose" broke my arm, the clan has decided on my death! If Rahan is the loyal man you say he is, he will know the truth! On condition of never revealing it to those of the river. Rahan gives you his word! Page Seventeen: The sorcerer dropped the heavy skins, and Rahan saw how slender the sorcerer was. He also saw the bark plate protecting the chest and in which his knife had stuck. You are the first true hunter to know our secret! Sonaya then took off her mask and a young woman's face was revealed!! We were all once members of the river clan. But a barbaric custom made us flee. This custom consists of. Eliminating all those who, crippled or injured, are no longer useful for hunting! Some are thrown to the piranhas. Others are abandoned in the jungle, delivered to wild animals! It is these unfortunates that we collect in our cave. Page Eighteen: They are unfortunately unable to hunt and that is why at the time when the moon is round, I appear as a sorcerer on the hill. One night I wear one mask, the next night another. This is how Fraukk's men think I can change my appearance! It was enough for me to threaten the clan with my curse, to bend these barbarians to my will. They place their offering of meat away from this cave, as I demand. And this meat feeds my companions until the epoch of the new round moon! This tale enchanted the son of ferocious Ages. So the river clan unknowingly feeds those they hunted! But has Fraukk never tried anything against you? Yes, but only once. Page Nineteen: One night, he crossed the line that I set for his men. The flint he threw at me stuck in the bark shield. Like your knife! This reinforced the idea in the clan, that the "Sorcerer-of-the-round-moon" is invulnerable. How did you imagine all these tricks! You who are neither sick nor infirm, you did not have to fear the barbarous custom! Me no! But my father was a victim of it. He was a brave hunter. But one day he was charged by a big "Two-Tooth" He could have recovered, but the savage custom demanded that he be thrown into the river! It was after seeing my poor father torn to pieces by the Piranhas that I took refuge in the hills. Page Twenty: Later others joined me. We formed this new clan. Where everyone helps each other, as all "Those-who-walk-upright" should do! But if Fraukk learned that the "Sorcerer-of-the-round-moon" Is only a young woman, He would come to decimate these unfortunates! He will never know! Rahan will never betray you, Sonaya! It was the first time that Crao's son had made a pact with a Sorcerer! But this Sorcerer or rather this witch had nothing in common with those he had known! Keep watch long over your banished clan, Sonaya! Rahan will not forget you! The seasons passed. Whenever the time of the radiant moon returned, Rahan thought of Sonaya and those barbarous and stupid beings who brought offerings to them. That they had hunted from their clan! And each time, this thought made the son of fierce ages very happy. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html

Rahan. Episode Thirty Four. The Forest of Axes. Intrigued by the strange forest he discovered at the bottom of the valley, the son of Crao did not immediately hear the huge reptile that was coiling in the branches. When the light rustling of the scales on the rough bark alerted him it was too late, the snake was too close! Back, “Boak”!! Rahan only violated your domain to orient himself! He does not want to fight! Rahan did not even reach for his ivory knife. Page Two: Ra-ha-ha! Because he knew that a hand to hand melee on these fragile branches would be fatal to him. Seeing a sturdier branch, he dived towards this refuge. Crack! His cry was followed by the crack of the branch breaking in shock. He glimpsed the top of the tree toppling over in the sky. And fell into the void, shattering the branches that lashed his body. Had he escaped the boa to crash to the ground? No! His fall was abruptly stopped and he felt himself rocking gently, almost pleasantly. Crao said that luck often comes to the aid of hunters! The coincidence was that this forked fragment that he had not let go of, had hooked up on a long, paired branch. Page Three: For the son of Crao, the jump that brought him back to the ground was just a game. Farewell Boak! Rahan cannot wait to take a closer look at this bush with thorns of flint! A moment later he was descending towards those thickets which had so intrigued him. Son of fierce ages, Rahan had crossed many territories, met many hordes, and attended many rites. But what he discovered that day amazed him. It is not nature that made these stone thorns grow!! But those who walk upright!! All around him, branches and bushes were bristling with flints of all shapes. Even Crao, who knew so much, never spoke of such a strange forest. Page Four: Rahan and no time to ask other questions. Death to him who violates the "Forest of Axes" in the season of yellow leaves! Weapons flew around Rahan as he fled. The handle of one of them reached his neck. Robust, he quickly recovered his wits. I am Rahan, son of Crao! I cross this territory as a friend! But the hunters disarmed and overpowered him. The clan chief admired the thin but strong ivory blade. When the next "Season-without-leaves" comes, Baroa will have the most beautiful weapon! The knife belongs to Rahan! It is now owned by Baroa! With a violent blow of the knife, Baroa severed an axe-branch. Page Five: He split this one, and slipped in the blade. Strongly fortifying the branch with the help of a vine. The "Blood-of-the-tree" will do the rest! Moons follow moons, seasons follow seasons and the "Blood of the tree" will act. Your knife and this branch will be one forever! For the son of Crao the mystery of the forest of axes was suddenly cleared up. The branches, coming together over the seasons, would form around the flints the most solid, the most effective of attachments. Baroa and his hunters have discovered a marvelous secret! Rahan will reveal it to the clans he meets! The leaders of the horde shall decide whether Rahan should live or die! Surrounding their captive, the hunters were already dragging him towards a hill. Page Six: The clan was only halfway up the slope when shouts arose from the forest of axes. "Those-of-the-cliff" once again betray their word! Entrusting Rahan to two of their own, the hunters screamed down into the forest. A moment later, the men of Baroa and "the people of the cliff" were wildly fighting. Despite the distance, the son of Crao heard the flint weapons clashing. Why do they fight? Why are they killing each other? Because "Those-of-the-cliff" do not have the right to enter the forest of axes! Watching the flow of the combat, the hunters were less vigilant. Crao would not pass up this opportunity to escape! Page Seven: Ra-ha-ha! Rahan's two fists struck at the same time. The hunters had not gotten up when he leapt into the rocks, as nimble as a chamois. With the night they will not find Rahan! But Rahan, he must find his knife! Shortly afterwards, as the sun was setting, the son of Crao saw the two clans which, each side by side, were abandoning the forest of the Axes. Like most hunters, they fear fighting in the dark! Their fear can benefit Rahan! Page Eight: Rahan stealthily moved through the silent forest, looking for the copse where Baroa had "Grafted" his ivory knife. When a spear, narrowly missing him, stuck itself in a trunk! Shtok! If it was not for this injury, I would not have missed you, hill dog!! Rahan does not belong to the clan of the hills! He is looking for his knife that Baroa stole from him!! A knife!? When so many axes are at your fingertips! Weapons. I will not see more. When I am in "shadow territory"! Rahan understood that this man, indeed, would not survive his terrible wound. Whose idea was it to use the "Blood of the Trees" to make these axes? No one does. Know anymore. The fathers, of our fathers, perhaps. Or maybe them. The fathers of fathers, from "Those of the Hills". Page Nine: In the past, our two clans respected the custom! Everyone waited for "the-seasons-without-leaves" when "the blood-of-the-trees", had made strong axes, to come and get new weapons for our hunts. At that time peace reigned. But each clan wanted to own more axes than the other! We no longer waited for the season without leaves to get weapons. And the fights started as soon as the men of one clan were reported in the forest, with the men of the other clan running to chase them away! This is what happened today. But for me. This will be the last fight. The dying man was panting. His drooping fingers felt his shell necklace. Since. You are not involved in our Discords, I hope you will accept. To take this to Troik. Troik is my son. Page Ten: Rahan remembered that cruel day of his childhood when Crao-the-wise, before dying, had given him his necklace of claws. Rahan will put this necklace around Troik's neck himself! Rahan promises you! The hunter's eyelids fluttered as if to give thanks. Then they closed forever. Rahan will find the copse when it's daylight! The son of Crao searched for his knife for a long time. But the darkness was too deep. He headed towards the cliff at the foot of which were cut out entrances to caves. As no fire burned in these caves, nor on the hills. He concluded that these two clans, like many others he had met, did not know how to start the fire using the “stones-that-throw-stars". Page Eleven: He was crawling towards the caves when. Those of the hills are crawling like snakes now!! Stand! Goaded by the spears, the son of Crao obeyed. Look! Troar's necklace! He killed Troar and dares to spy on us! Rahan did not kill Troar! But he saw him die and Troar asked him to bring this necklace back to his son, Troik! Rahan speaks the truth! Men and children came out of the caves. Which of you is Troik? That is me! Your father is dead, Troik. His last words were to regret those stupid fights between you and the clan of the hills! Page Twelve: The adolescent let the necklace pass around his neck. You lie! You have killed Troar, and this necklace is only a pretext to come and spy on us, to find out the number of our hunters! Death to the dog from the hills. A few men rushed in, spears held high. Death! Ra-ha-ha! The first hunter was disarmed, without having been able to understand how. Ra-ha-ha! A terrifying roundhouse threw the other men to the ground. But the son of Crao could not and did not want to face this pack! A roar of rage and resentment arose as he rushed to the forest of axes. Page Thirteen: A moment later he was running between the first thickets bristling with flints. They dare not chase Rahan! But as soon as the sun rises Rahan will be hunted down by both the Cliff Clan and the Hill Clan! Had it not been for his precious ivory knife which he wanted to find, the son of Crao would have immediately fled this hostile territory. Ohh! Luck is with Rahan! Chance, indeed, had brought him back near the copse where his weapon had been consigned to the "Blood-of-the-trees". The spear cut through the vine. The branch parted, releasing the knife. Page Fourteen: You will never belong to Baroa, like that bully thought! You will remain Rahan's faithful weapon! Besides, "Men-of-the-cliffs" and "Men-of-the-Hills", will find here more weapons than they need to massacre each other from father to son! The son of fierce ages pouted in deep sadness. Why are “Those-who-walk-upright” killing each other to own this forest? The pout suddenly gave way to a resolute expression. The reason for these massacres would disappear if this forest did not exist! Yes. That is how Crao would have thought! The forest must disappear! The son of Crao was already gathering dry brushwood. Page Fifteen: He did not have to beat the flint for long. Flames rose, on which he threw resinous twigs. From the top of the hills, they had seen this fire light up mysteriously. But this miracle could not be attributed to a man. They did not understand until they caught a glimpse of Rahan running through the forest, and throwing here and there his flaming twigs! Fanned by the wind, the fire uncovered the carpet of dry grass. The flames on all sides wrapped around the resinous trunks. And gnawed the branches where, for seasons, the blood-of-the-trees had welded the flint axes. The son of Crao had fled, so as not to be surrounded by the enclosure of fire. Page Sixteen: He perceived, in spite of the crackling, and of the flames, the angry howls coming from the cliffs and falling from the hills. Howl! Howl! You will probably understand one day what Rahan has done for you! At daybreak the forest of axes was no more than charred trunks at the feet of which lay hundreds of flints. The son of Crao did not see this sight because he was fleeing to the south. To be hunted by the clan of the cliffs and that of the hills. The wide precipice that stopped his course did not surprise him. Because he had often had to cross obstacles of this kind. Page Seventeen: He knew that a very long line would allow him to pass across this ravine. But would his pursuers give him time? The first time the lasso missed the rock that he was aiming for on the other side of the ravine. Ra-ha-ha! But on the second attempt, the loop tightened on the rock. He was tying the vine to the trunk of a tree when the hunters appeared in the distance. Rahan is lost! Rahan is agile, but he will not even get to the middle of the ravine when these men arrive! And then they will cut the vine! Page Eighteen: Rahan will fall over the precipice as he fell from the tree yesterday! Oh! Oh! The Branch! Rahan's face suddenly lit up. And in a fraction of a second, he remembered how a branch had saved him from falling to his death. The ivory blade repeatedly fell on a forked branch. The hunters were now only a hundred paces from him. They were only fifty paces away when the branch was finally separated! A few spears stuck around the son of Crao who, placing the forked branch on the vine. Page Nineteen: Ra-ha-ha! Let himself fall into the void! Clinging to the branch that slipped on the vine, Rahan knew that his life depended on the seconds that were to follow. While the slope of the precipice came on him at a mad speed, in the distance a hunter raised his axe to cut the line. Clong! That axe fell just as Rahan let himself roll near the granite rock, on the other side of the ravine! Only a demon is capable of such a thing! We should not have hunted a being who has knowledge of starting fire. Page Twenty: Listen to his cry! Maybe he will come back for revenge!? Ra-ha-ha! The hunters were wrong. This cry uttered by Rahan was neither a cry of hatred, nor a cry of revenge! It was quite simply the clamor he launched when he had overcome a danger, or triumphed over a peril. They will not kill each other anymore for the "Axe Forest"! Crao the wise would have been proud of Rahan! Once again, in these fierce times, Rahan had acted for the happiness of "Those-who-walk-upright". And if he rushed forward, happy and light-hearted, in pursuit of an immense butterfly, it was not to capture the insect, but because it was leading him to discover new territories. Index: https://rumble.com/v3486cm-rahan-index-of-episodes-by-roger-lecureux..html