Rescue Party by Arthur C. Clarke (Full Text)

This is a nice rainy-day read. It’s a classic science fiction story about a “rescue party” that encounters the remains of a civilization. It’s a nice read, and will keep your mind occupied. It is reprinted in full, with no registration, need to provide your credit card (oh, to check to see if you are human; LOL) or CAPTCHA bullshit. If English is not your native language, you can translate it using the buttons on the side. Enjoy.

Rescue Party

by Arthur C. Clarke

Preface by Eric Flint

I'm certain this wasn't the first science fiction story I ever read, because I still remember those vividly. Three novels, all read when I was twelve years old and living in the small town of Shaver Lake (pop. 500) in the Sierra Nevada mountains in California: Robert Heinlein's Citizen of the Galaxy, Tom Godwin's The Survivors and Andre Norton's Star Rangers.

I must have started reading Arthur C. Clarke soon thereafter, though. The two stories that introduced me to him as I remember, anyway were this one and "Jupiter V," and those two stories fixed Clarke permanently as one of the central triad in my own personal pantheon of SF's great writers. (The other two being Robert Heinlein and Andre Norton.)

We chose this one, rather than "Jupiter V," at my request. I wanted this one because, of all the stories ever written in science fiction, this is the one which first demonstrated to me that science fiction could be inspirational as well as fascinating. So I thought at the age of twelve or possibly thirteen. More than four decades have now gone by, and I haven't changed my mind at all.

Who was to blame? For three days Alveron’s thoughts had come back to that question, and still he had found no answer. A creature of a less civilized or a less sensitive race would never have let it torture his mind, and would have satisfied himself with the assurance that no one could be responsible for the working of fate. But Alveron and his kind had been lords of the Universe since the dawn of history, since that far distant age when the Time Barrier had been folded round the cosmos by the unknown powers that lay beyond the Beginning. To them had been given all knowledge and with infinite knowledge went infinite responsibility. If there were mistakes and errors in the administration of the galaxy, the fault lay on the heads of Alveron and his people. And this was no mere mistake: it was one of the greatest tragedies in history.

The crew still knew nothing. Even Rugon, his closest friend and the ship’s deputy captain, had been told only part of the truth. But now the doomed worlds lay less than a billion miles ahead. In a few hours, they would be landing on the third planet.

Once again Alveron read the message from Base; then, with a flick of a tentacle that no human eye could have followed, he pressed the “General Attention” button. Throughout the mile-long cylinder that was the Galactic Survey Ship S9000, creatures of many races laid down their work to listen to the words of their captain.

“I know you have all been wondering,” began Alveron, “why we were ordered to abandon our survey and to proceed at such an acceleration to this region of space. Some of you may realize what this acceleration means. Our ship is on its last voyage: the generators have already been running for sixty hours at Ultimate Overload. We will be very lucky if we return to Base under our own power.

“We are approaching a sun which is about to become a Nova. Detonation will occur in seven hours, with an uncertainty of one hour, leaving us a maximum of only four hours for exploration. There are ten planets in the system about to be destroyed and there is a civilization on the third. That fact was discovered only a few days ago. It is our tragic mission to contact that doomed race and if possible to save some of its members. I know that there is little we can do in so short a time with this single ship. No other machine can possibly reach the system before detonation occurs.”

There was a long pause during which there could have been no sound or movement in the whole of the mighty ship as it sped silently toward the worlds ahead. Alveron knew what his companions were thinking and he tried to answer their unspoken question.

“You will wonder how such a disaster, the greatest of which we have any record, has been allowed to occur. On one point I can reassure you. The fault does not lie with the Survey.

“As you know, with our present fleet of under twelve thousand ships, it is possible to re-examine each of the eight thousand million solar systems in the Galaxy at intervals of about a million years. Most worlds change very little in so short a time as that.

“Less than four hundred thousand years ago, the survey ship S5060 examined the planets of the system we are approaching. It found intelligence on none of them, though the third planet was teeming with animal life and two other worlds had once been inhabited. The usual report was submitted and the system is due for its next examination in six hundred thousand years.

“It now appears that in the incredibly short period since the last survey, intelligent life has appeared in the system. The first intimation of this occurred when unknown radio signals were detected on the planet Kulath in the system X29.35, Y34.76, Z27.93. Bearings were taken on them; they were coming from the system ahead.

“Kulath is two hundred light-years from here, so those radio waves had been on their way for two centuries. Thus for at least that period of time a civilization has existed on one of these worlds a civilization that can generate electromagnetic waves and all that that implies.

“An immediate telescopic examination of the system was made and it was then found that the sun was in the unstable pre-nova stage. Detonation might occur at any moment, and indeed might have done so while the light waves were on their way to Kulath.

“There was a slight delay while the supervelocity scanners on Kulath II were focused on to the system. They showed that the explosion had not yet occurred but was only a few hours away. If Kulath had been a fraction of a light-year further from this sun, we should never have known of its civilization until it had ceased to exist.

“The Administrator of Kulath contacted the Sector Base immediately, and I was ordered to proceed to the system at once. Our object is to save what members we can of the doomed race, if indeed there are any left. But we have assumed that a civilization possessing radio could have protected itself against any rise of temperature that may have already occurred.

“This ship and the two tenders will each explore a section of the planet. Commander Torkalee will take Number One, Commander Orostron Number Two. They will have just under four hours in which to explore this world. At the end of that time, they must be back in the ship. It will be leaving then, with or without them. I will give the two commanders detailed instructions in the control room immediately.

“That is all. We enter atmosphere in two hours.” * * *

On the world once known as Earth the fires were dying out: there was nothing left to burn. The great forests that had swept across the planet like a tidal wave with the passing of the cities were now no more than glowing charcoal and the smoke of their funeral pyres still stained the sky. But the last hours were still to come, for the surface rocks had not yet begun to flow. The continents were dimly visible through the haze, but their outlines meant nothing to the watchers in the approaching ship. The charts they possessed were out of date by a dozen Ice Ages and more deluges than one.

The S9000 had driven past Jupiter and seen at once that no life could exist in those half-gaseous oceans of compressed hydrocarbons, now erupting furiously under the sun’s abnormal heat. Mars and the outer planets they had missed, and Alveron realized that the worlds nearer the sun than Earth would be already melting. It was more than likely, he thought sadly, that the tragedy of this unknown race was already finished. Deep in his heart, he thought it might be better so. The ship could only have carried a few hundred survivors, and the problem of selection had been haunting his mind.

Rugon, Chief of Communications and Deputy Captain, came into the control room. For the last hour he had been striving to detect radiation from Earth, but in vain.

“We’re too late,” he announced gloomily. “I’ve monitored the whole spectrum and the ether’s dead except for our own stations and some two-hundred-year-old programs from Kulath. Nothing in this system is radiating any more.”

He moved toward the giant vision screen with a graceful flowing motion that no mere biped could ever hope to imitate. Alveron said nothing; he had been expecting this news.

One entire wall of the control room was taken up by the screen, a great black rectangle that gave an impression of almost infinite depth. Three of Rugon’s slender control tentacles, useless for heavy work but incredibly swift at all manipulation, flickered over the selector dials and the screen lit up with a thousand points of light. The star field flowed swiftly past as Rugon adjusted the controls, bringing the projector to bear upon the sun itself.

No man of Earth would have recognized the monstrous shape that filled the screen. The sun’s light was white no longer: great violet-blue clouds covered half its surface and from them long streamers of flame were erupting into space. At one point an enormous prominence had reared itself out of the photosphere, far out even into the flickering veils of the corona. It was as though a tree of fire had taken root in the surface of the sun a tree that stood half a million miles high and whose branches were rivers of flame sweeping through space at hundreds of miles a second.

“I suppose,” said Rugon presently, “that you are quite satisfied about the astronomers’ calculations. After all “

“Oh, we’re perfectly safe,” said Alveron confidently. “I’ve spoken to Kulath Observatory and they have been making some additional checks through our own instruments. That uncertainty of an hour includes a private safety margin which they won’t tell me in case I feel tempted to stay any longer.”

He glanced at the instrument board.

“The pilot should have brought us to the atmosphere now. Switch the screen back to the planet, please. Ah, there they go!”

There was a sudden tremor underfoot and a raucous clanging of alarms, instantly stilled. Across the vision screen two slim projectiles dived toward the looming mass of Earth. For a few miles they traveled together, then they separated, one vanishing abruptly as it entered the shadow of the planet.

Slowly the huge mother ship, with its thousand times greater mass, descended after them into the raging storms that already were tearing down the deserted cities of Man. * * *

It was night in the hemisphere over which Orostron drove his tiny command. Like Torkalee, his mission was to photograph and record, and to report progress to the mother ship. The little scout had no room for specimens or passengers. If contact was made with the inhabitants of this world, the S9000 would come at once. There would be no time for parleying. If there was any trouble the rescue would be by force and the explanations could come later.

The ruined land beneath was bathed with an eerie, flickering light, for a great auroral display was raging over half the world. But the image on the vision screen was independent of external light, and it showed clearly a waste of barren rock that seemed never to have known any form of life. Presumably this desert land must come to an end somewhere. Orostron increased his speed to the highest value he dared risk in so dense an atmosphere.

The machine fled on through the storm, and presently the desert of rock began to climb toward the sky. A great mountain range lay ahead, its peaks lost in the smoke-laden clouds. Orostron directed the scanners toward the horizon, and on the vision screen the line of mountains seemed suddenly very close and menacing. He started to climb rapidly. It was difficult to imagine a more unpromising land in which to find civilization and he wondered if it would be wise to change course. He decided against it. Five minutes later, he had his reward.

Miles below lay a decapitated mountain, the whole of its summit sheared away by some tremendous feat of engineering. Rising out of the rock and straddling the artificial plateau was an intricate structure of metal girders, supporting masses of machinery. Orostron brought his ship to a halt and spiraled down toward the mountain.

The slight Doppler blur had now vanished, and the picture on the screen was clear-cut. The latticework was supporting some scores of great metal mirrors, pointing skyward at an angle of forty-five degrees to the horizontal. They were slightly concave, and each had some complicated mechanism at its focus. There seemed something impressive and purposeful about the great array; every mirror was aimed at precisely the same spot in the sky or beyond.

Orostron turned to his colleagues.

“It looks like some kind of observatory to me,” he said. “Have you ever seen anything like it before?”

Klarten, a multitentacled, tripedal creature from a globular cluster at the edge of the Milky Way, had a different theory.

“That’s communication equipment. Those reflectors are for focusing electromagnetic beams. I’ve seen the same kind of installation on a hundred worlds before. It may even be the station that Kulath picked up though that’s rather unlikely, for the beams would be very narrow from mirrors that size.”

“That would explain why Rugon could detect no radiation before we landed,” added Hansur II, one of the twin beings from the planet Thargon.

Orostron did not agree at all.

“If that is a radio station, it must be built for interplanetary communication. Look at the way the mirrors are pointed. I don’t believe that a race which has only had radio for two centuries can have crossed space. It took my people six thousand years to do it.”

“We managed it in three,” said Hansur II mildly, speaking a few seconds ahead of his twin. Before the inevitable argument could develop, Klarten began to wave his tentacles with excitement. While the others had been talking, he had started the automatic monitor.

“Here it is! Listen!”

He threw a switch, and the little room was filled with a raucous whining sound, continually changing in pitch but nevertheless retaining certain characteristics that were difficult to define.

The four explorers listened intently for a minute; then Orostron said, “Surely that can’t be any form of speech! No creature could produce sounds as quickly as that!”

Hansur I had come to the same conclusion. “That’s a television program. Don’t you think so, Klarten?”

The other agreed.

“Yes, and each of those mirrors seems to be radiating a different program. I wonder where they’re going? If I’m correct, one of the other planets in the system must lie along those beams. We can soon check that.”

Orostron called the S9000 and reported the discovery. Both Rugon and Alveron were greatly excited, and made a quick check of the astronomical records.

The result was surprising and disappointing. None of the other nine planets lay anywhere near the line of transmission. The great mirrors appeared to be pointing blindly into space.

There seemed only one conclusion to be drawn, and Klarten was the first to voice it.

“They had interplanetary communication,” he said. “But the station must be deserted now, and the transmitters no longer controlled. They haven’t been switched off, and are just pointing where they were left.”

“Well, we’ll soon find out,” said Orostron. “I’m going to land.”

He brought the machine slowly down to the level of the great metal mirrors, and past them until it came to rest on the mountain rock. A hundred yards away, a white stone building crouched beneath the maze of steel girders. It was windowless, but there were several doors in the wall facing them.

Orostron watched his companions climb into their protective suits and wished he could follow. But someone had to stay in the machine to keep in touch with the mother ship. Those were Alveron’s instructions, and they were very wise. One never knew what would happen on a world that was being explored for the first time, especially under conditions such as these.

Very cautiously, the three explorers stepped out of the airlock and adjusted the antigravity field of their suits. Then, each with the mode of locomotion peculiar to his race, the little party went toward the building, the Hansur twins leading and Klarten following close behind. His gravity control was apparently giving trouble, for he suddenly fell to the ground, rather to the amusement of his colleagues. Orostron saw them pause for a moment at the nearest door then it opened slowly and they disappeared from sight.

So Orostron waited, with what patience he could, while the storm rose around him and the light of the aurora grew even brighter in the sky. At the agreed times he called the mother ship and received brief acknowledgments from Rugon. He wondered how Torkalee was faring, halfway round the planet, but he could not contact him through the crash and thunder of solar interference.

It did not take Klarten and the Hansurs long to discover that their theories were largely correct. The building was a radio station, and it was utterly deserted. It consisted of one tremendous room with a few small offices leading from it. In the main chamber, row after row of electrical equipment stretched into the distance; lights flickered and winked on hundreds of control panels, and a dull glow came from the elements in a great avenue of vacuum tubes.

But Klarten was not impressed. The first radio sets his race had built were now fossilized in strata a thousand million years old. Man, who had possessed electrical machines for only a few centuries, could not compete with those who had known them for half the lifetime of the Earth.

Nevertheless, the party kept their recorders running as they explored the building. There was still one problem to be solved. The deserted station was broadcasting programs, but where were they coming from? The central switchboard had been quickly located. It was designed to handle scores of programs simultaneously, but the source of those programs was lost in a maze of cables that vanished underground. Back in the S9000, Rugon was trying to analyze the broadcasts and perhaps his researches would reveal their origin. It was impossible to trace cables that might lead across continents.

The party wasted little time at the deserted station. There was nothing they could learn from it, and they were seeking life rather than scientific information. A few minutes later the little ship rose swiftly from the plateau and headed toward the plains that must lie beyond the mountains. Less than three hours were still left to them.

As the array of enigmatic mirrors dropped out of sight, Orostron was struck by a sudden thought. Was it imagination, or had they all moved through a small angle while he had been waiting, as if they were still compensating for the rotation of the Earth? He could not be sure, and he dismissed the matter as unimportant. It would only mean that the directing mechanism was still working, after a fashion.

They discovered the city fifteen minutes later. It was a great, sprawling metropolis, built around a river that had disappeared leaving an ugly scar winding its way among the great buildings and beneath bridges that looked very incongruous now.

Even from the air, the city looked deserted. But only two and a half hours were left there was no time for further exploration. Orostron made his decision, and landed near the largest structure he could see. It seemed reasonable to suppose that some creatures would have sought shelter in the strongest buildings, where they would be safe until the very end.

The deepest caves in the heart of the planet itself would give no protection when the final cataclysm came. Even if this race had reached the outer planets, its doom would only be delayed by the few hours it would take for the ravening wavefronts to cross the Solar System.

Orostron could not know that the city had been deserted not for a few days or weeks, but for over a century. For the culture of cities, which had outlasted so many civilizations had been doomed at last when the helicopter brought universal transportation. Within a few generations the great masses of mankind, knowing that they could reach any part of the globe in a matter of hours, had gone back to the fields and forests for which they had always longed. The new civilization had machines and resources of which earlier ages had never dreamed, but it was essentially rural and no longer bound to the steel and concrete warrens that had dominated the centuries before. Such cities as still remained were specialized centers of research, administration or entertainment; the others had been allowed to decay, where it was too much trouble to destroy them. The dozen or so greatest of all cities, and the ancient university towns, had scarcely changed and would have lasted for many generations to come. But the cities that had been founded on steam and iron and surface transportation had passed with the industries that had nourished them.

And so while Orostron waited in the tender, his colleagues raced through endless empty corridors and deserted halls, taking -innumerable photographs but learning nothing of the creatures who had used these buildings. There were libraries, meeting places, council rooms, thousands of offices all were empty and deep with dust. If they had not seen the radio station on its mountain eyrie, the explorers could well have believed that this world had known no life for centuries.

Through the long minutes of waiting, Orostron tried to imagine where this race could have vanished. Perhaps they had killed themselves knowing that escape was impossible; perhaps they had built great shelters in the bowels of the planet, and even now were cowering in their millions beneath his feet, waiting for the end. He began to fear that he would never know.

It was almost a relief when at last he had to give the order for the return. Soon he would know if Torkalee’s party had been more fortunate. And he was anxious to get back to the mother ship, for as the minutes passed the suspense had become more and more acute. There had always been the thought in his mind: What if the astronomers of Kulath have made a mistake? He would begin to feel happy when the walls of the S9000 were around him. He would be happier still when they were out in space and this ominous sun was shrinking far astern.

As soon as his colleagues had entered the airlock, Orostron hurled his tiny machine into the sky and set the controls to home on the S9000. Then he turned to his friends.

“Well, what have you found?” he asked.

Klarten produced a large roll of canvas and spread it out on the floor.

“This is what they were like,” he said quietly. “Bipeds, with only two arms. They seem to have managed well, in spite of that handicap. Only two eyes as well, unless there are others in the back. We were lucky to find this; it’s about the only thing they left behind.”

The ancient oil painting stared stonily back at the three creatures regarding it so intently. By the irony of fate, its complete worthlessness had saved it from oblivion. When the city had been evacuated, no one had bothered to move Alderman John Richards, 1909-1974. For a century and a half he had been gathering dust while far away from the old cities the new civilization had been rising to heights no earlier culture had ever known.

“That was almost all we found,” said Klarten. “The city must have been deserted for years. I’m afraid our expedition has been a failure. If there are any living beings on this world, they’ve hidden themselves too well for us to find them.”

His commander was forced to agree.

“It was an almost impossible task,” he said. “If we’d had weeks instead of hours we might have succeeded. For all we know, they may even have built shelters under the sea. No one seems to have thought of that.”

He glanced quickly at the indicators and corrected the course.

“We’ll be there in five minutes. Alveron seems to be moving rather quickly. I wonder if Torkalee has found anything.”

The S9000 was hanging a few miles above the seaboard of a blazing continent when Orostron homed upon it. The danger line was thirty minutes away and there was no time to lose. Skillfully, he maneuvered the little ship into its launching tube and the party stepped out of the airlock.

There was a small crowd waiting for them. That was to be expected, but Orostron could see at once that something more than curiosity had brought his friends here. Even before a word was spoken, he knew that something was wrong.

“Torkalee hasn’t returned. He’s lost his party and we’re going to the rescue. Come along to the control room at once.” * * *

From the beginning, Torkalee had been luckier than Orostron. He had followed the zone of twilight, keeping away from the intolerable glare of the sun, until he came to the shores of an inland sea. It was a very recent sea, one of the latest of Man’s works, for the land it covered had been desert less than a century before. In a few hours it would be desert again, for the water was boiling and clouds of steam were rising to the skies. But they could not veil the loveliness of the great white city that overlooked the tideless sea.

Flying machines were still parked neatly round the square in which Torkalee landed. They were disappointingly primitive, though beautifully finished, and depended on rotating airfoils for support. Nowhere was there any sign of life, but the place gave the impression that its inhabitants were not very far away. Lights were still shining from some of the windows.

Torkalee’s three companions lost no time in leaving the machine. Leader of the party, by seniority of rank and race was T’sinadree, who like Alveron himself had been born on one of the ancient planets of the Central Suns. Next came Alarkane, from a race which was one of the youngest in the Universe and took a perverse pride in the fact. Last came one of the strange beings from the system of Palador. It was nameless, like all its kind, for it possessed no identity of its own, being merely a mobile but still dependent cell in the consciousness of its race. Though it and its fellows had long been scattered over the galaxy in the exploration of countless worlds, some unknown link still bound them together as inexorably as the living cells in a human body.

When a creature of Palador spoke, the pronoun it used was always “We.” There was not, nor could there ever be, any first person singular in the language of Palador.

The great doors of the splendid building baffled the explorers, though any human child would have known their secret. T’sinadree wasted no time on them but called Torkalee on his personal transmitter. Then the three hurried aside while their commander maneuvered his machine into the best position. There was a brief burst of intolerable flame; the massive steelwork flickered once at the edge of the visible spectrum and was gone. The stones were still glowing when the eager party hurried into the building, the beams of their light projectors fanning before them.

The torches were not needed. Before them lay a great hall, glowing with light from lines of tubes along the ceiling. On either side, the hall opened out into long corridors, while straight ahead a massive stairway swept majestically toward the upper floors.

For a moment T’sinadree hesitated. Then, since one way was as good as another, he led his companions down the first corridor.

The feeling that life was near had now become very strong. At any moment, it seemed, they might be confronted by the creatures of this world. If they showed hostility and they could scarcely be blamed if they did the paralyzers would be used at once.

The tension was very great as the party entered the first room, and only relaxed when they saw that it held nothing but machines row after row of them, now stilled and silent. Lining the enormous room were thousands of metal filing cabinets, forming a continuous wall as far as the eye could reach. And that was all; there was no furniture, nothing but the cabinets and the mysterious machines.

Alarkane, always the quickest of the three, was already examining the cabinets. Each held many thousand sheets of tough, thin material, perforated with innumerable holes and slots. The Paladorian appropriated one of the cards and Alarkane recorded the scene together with some close-ups of the machines. Then they left. The great room, which had been one of the marvels of the world, meant nothing to them. No living eye would ever again see that wonderful battery of almost human Hollerith analyzers and the five thousand million punched cards holding all that could be recorded on each man, woman and child on the planet.

It was clear that this building had been used very recently. With growing excitement, the explorers hurried on to the next room. This they found to be an enormous library, for millions of books lay all around them on miles and miles of shelving. Here, though the explorers could not know it, were the records of all the laws that Man had ever passed, and all the speeches that had ever been made in his council chambers.

T’sinadree was deciding his plan of action, when Alarkane drew his attention to one of the racks a hundred yards away. It was half empty, unlike all the others. Around it books lay in a tumbled heap on the floor, as if knocked down by someone in frantic haste. The signs were unmistakable. Not long ago, other creatures had been this way. Faint wheel marks were clearly visible on the floor to the acute sense of Alarkane, though the others could see nothing. Alarkane could even detect footprints, but knowing nothing of the creatures that had formed them he could not say which way they led.

The sense of nearness was stronger than ever now, but it was nearness in time, not in space. Alarkane voiced the thoughts of the party.

“Those books must have been valuable, and someone has come to rescue them rather as an afterthought, I should say. That means there must be a place of refuge, possibly not very far away. Perhaps we may be able to find some other clues that will lead us to it.”

T’sinadree agreed; the Paladorian wasn’t enthusiastic.

“That may be so,” it said, “but the refuge may be anywhere on the planet, and we have just two hours left. Let us waste no more time if we hope to rescue these people.”

The party hurried forward once more, pausing only to collect a few books that might be useful to the scientists at Base though it was doubtful if they could ever be translated. They soon found that the great building was composed largely of small rooms, all showing signs of recent occupation. Most of them were in a neat and tidy condition, but one or two were very much the reverse. The explorers were particularly puzzled by one room clearly an office of some kind that appeared to have been completely wrecked. The floor was littered with papers, the furniture had been smashed, and smoke was pouring through the broken windows from the fires outside.

T’sinadree was rather alarmed.

“Surely no dangerous animal could have got into a place like this!” he exclaimed, fingering his paralyzer nervously.

Alarkane did not answer. He began to make that annoying sound which his race called “laughter.” It was several minutes before he would explain what had amused him.

“I don’t think any animal has done it,” he said. “In fact, the explanation is very simple. Suppose you had been working all your life in this room, dealing with endless papers, year after year. And suddenly, you are told that you will never see it again, that your work is finished, and that you can leave it forever. More than that no one will come after you. Everything is finished. How would you make your exit, T’sinadree?”

The other thought for a moment.

“Well, I suppose I’d just tidy things up and leave. That’s what seems to have happened in all the other rooms.”

Alarkane laughed again.

“I’m quite sure you would. But some individuals have a different psychology. I think I should have liked the creature that used this room.”

He did not explain himself further, and his two colleagues puzzled over his words for quite a while before they gave it up.

It came as something of a shock when Torkalee gave the order to return. They had gathered a great deal of information, but had found no clue that might lead them to the missing inhabitants of this world. That problem was as baffling as ever, and now it seemed that it would never be solved. There were only forty minutes left before the S9000 would be departing.

They were halfway back to the tender when they saw the semicircular passage leading down into the depths of the building. Its architectural style was quite different from that used elsewhere, and the gently sloping floor was an irresistible attraction to creatures whose many legs had grown weary of the marble staircases which only bipeds could have built in such profusion. T’sinadree had been the worst sufferer, for he normally employed twelve legs and could use twenty when he was in a hurry, though no one had ever seen him perform this feat.

The party stopped dead and looked down the passageway with a single thought. A tunnel, leading down into the depths of Earth! At its end, they might yet find the people of this world and rescue some of them from their fate. For there was still time to call the mother ship if the need arose.

T’sinadree signaled to his commander and Torkalee brought the little machine immediately overhead. There might not be time for the party to retrace its footsteps through the maze of passages, so meticulously recorded in the Paladorian mind that there was no possibility of going astray. If speed was necessary, Torkalee could blast his way through the dozen floors above their head. In any case, it should not take long to find what lay at the end of the passage.

It took only thirty seconds. The tunnel ended quite abruptly in a very curious cylindrical room with magnificently padded seats along the walls. There was no way out save that by which they had come and it was several seconds before the purpose of the chamber dawned on Alarkane’s mind. It was a pity, he thought, that they would never have time to use this. The thought was suddenly interrupted by a cry from T’sinadree. Alarkane wheeled around, and saw that the entrance had closed silently behind them.

Even in that first moment of panic, Alarkane found himself thinking with some admiration: Whoever they were, they knew how to build automatic machinery!

The Paladorian was the first to speak. It waved one of its tentacles toward the seats.

“We think it would be best to be seated,” it said. The multiplex mind of Palador had already analyzed the situation and knew what was coming.

They did not have long to wait before a low-pitched hum came from a grill overhead, and for the very last time in history a human, even if lifeless, voice was heard on Earth. The words were meaningless, though the trapped explorers could guess their message clearly enough.

“Choose your stations, please, and be seated.”

Simultaneously, a wall panel at one end of the compartment glowed with light. On it was a simple map, consisting of a series of a dozen circles connected by a line. Each of the circles had writing alongside it, and beside the writing were two buttons of different colors.

Alarkane looked questioningly at his leader.

“Don’t touch them,” said T’sinadree. “If we leave the controls alone, the doors may open again.”

He was wrong. The engineers who had designed the automatic subway had assumed that anyone who entered it would naturally wish to go somewhere. If they selected no intermediate station, their destination could only be the end of the line.

There was another pause while the relays and thyratrons waited for their orders. In those thirty seconds, if they had known what to do, the party could have opened the doors and left the subway. But they did not know, and the machines geared to a human psychology acted for them.

The surge of acceleration was not very great; the lavish upholstery was a luxury, not a necessity. Only an almost imperceptible vibration told of the speed at which they were traveling through the bowels of the earth, on a journey the duration of which they could not even guess. And in thirty minutes, the S9000 would be leaving the Solar System.

There was a long silence in the speeding machine. T’sinadree and Alarkane were thinking rapidly. So was the Paladorian, though in a different fashion. The conception of personal death was meaningless to it, for the destruction of a single unit meant no more to the group mind than the loss of a nail-paring to a man. But it could, though with great difficulty, appreciate the plight of individual intelligences such as Alarkane and T’sinadree, and it was anxious to help them if it could.

Alarkane had managed to contact Torkalee with his personal transmitter, though the signal was very weak and seemed to be fading quickly. Rapidly he explained the situation, and almost at once the signals became clearer. Torkalee was following the path of the machine, flying above the ground under which they were speeding to their unknown destination. That was the first indication they had of the fact that they were traveling at nearly a thousand miles an hour, and very soon after that Torkalee was able to give the still more disturbing news that they were rapidly approaching the sea. While they were beneath the land, there was a hope, though a slender one, that they might stop the machine and escape. But under the ocean not all the brains and the machinery in the great mother ship could save them. No one could have devised a more perfect trap.

T’sinadree had been examining the wall map with great attention. Its meaning was obvious, and along the line connecting the circles a tiny spot of light was crawling. It was already halfway to the first of the stations marked.

“I’m going to press one of those buttons,” said T’sinadree at last. “It won’t do any harm, and we may learn something.”

“I agree. Which will you try first?”

“There are only two kinds, and it won’t matter if we try the wrong one first. I suppose one is to start the machine and the other is to stop it.”

Alarkane was not very hopeful.

“It started without any button pressing,” he said. “I think it’s completely automatic and we can’t control it from here at all.”

T’sinadree could not agree.

“These buttons are clearly associated with the stations, and there’s no point in having them unless you can use them to stop yourself. The only question is, which is the right one?”

His analysis was perfectly correct. The machine could be stopped at any intermediate station. They had only been on their way ten minutes, and if they could leave now, no harm would have been done. It was just bad luck that T’sinadree’s first choice was the wrong button.

The little light on the map crawled slowly through the illuminated circle without checking its speed. And at the same time Torkalee called from the ship overhead.

“You have just passed underneath a city and are heading out to sea. There cannot be another stop for nearly a thousand miles.” * * *

Alveron had given up all hope of finding life on this world. The S9000 had roamed over half the planet, never staying long in one place, descending ever and again in an effort to attract attention. There had been no response; Earth seemed utterly dead. If any of its inhabitants were still alive, thought Alveron, they must have hidden themselves in its depths where no help could reach them, though their doom would be nonetheless certain.

Rugon brought news of the disaster. The great ship ceased its fruitless searching and fled back through the storm to the ocean above which Torkalee’s little tender was still following the track of the buried machine.

The scene was truly terrifying. Not since the days when Earth was born had there been such seas as this. Mountains of water were racing before the storm which had now reached velocities of many hundred miles an hour. Even at this distance from the mainland the air was full of flying debris trees, fragments of houses, sheets of metal, anything that had not been anchored to the ground. No airborne machine could have lived for a moment in such a gale. And ever and again even the roar of the wind was drowned as the vast water-mountains met head-on with a crash that seemed to shake the sky.

Fortunately, there had been no serious earthquakes yet. Far beneath the bed of the ocean, the wonderful piece of engineering which had been the World President’s private vacuum-subway was still working perfectly, unaffected by the tumult and destruction above. It would continue to work until the last minute of the Earth’s existence, which, if the astronomers were right, was not much more than fifteen minutes away though precisely how much more Alveron would have given a great deal to know. It would be nearly an hour before the trapped party could reach land and even the slightest hope of rescue.

Alveron’s instructions had been precise, though even without them he would never have dreamed of taking any risks with the great machine that had been entrusted to his care. Had he been human, the decision to abandon the trapped members of his crew would have been desperately hard to make. But he came of a race far more sensitive than Man, a race that so loved the things of the spirit that long ago, and with infinite reluctance, it had taken over control of the Universe since only thus could it be sure that justice was being done. Alveron would need all his superhuman gifts to carry him through the next few hours.

Meanwhile, a mile below the bed of the ocean Alarkane and T’sinadree were very busy indeed with their private communicators. Fifteen minutes is not a long time in which to wind up the affairs of a lifetime. It is indeed, scarcely long enough to dictate more than a few of those farewell messages which at such moments are so much more important than all other matters.

All the while the Paladorian had remained silent and motionless, saying not a word. The other two, resigned to their fate and engrossed in their personal affairs, had given it no thought. They were startled when suddenly it began to address them in its peculiarly passionless voice.

“We perceive that you are making certain arrangements concerning your anticipated destruction. That will probably be unnecessary. Captain Alveron hopes to rescue us if we can stop this machine when we reach land again.”

Both T’sinadree and Alarkane were too surprised to say anything for a moment. Then the latter gasped, “How do you know?”

It was a foolish question, for he remembered at once that there were several Paladorians if one could use the phrase in the S9000, and consequently their companion knew everything that was happening in the mother ship. So he did not wait for an answer but continued, “Alveron can’t do that! He daren’t take such a risk!”

“There will be no risk,” said the Paladorian. “We have told him what to do. It is really very simple.”

Alarkane and T’sinadree looked at their companion with something approaching awe, realizing now what must have happened. In moments of crisis, the single units comprising the Paladorian mind could link together in an organization no less close than that of any physical brain. At such moments they formed an intellect more powerful than any other in the Universe. All ordinary problems could be solved by a few hundred or thousand units. Very rarely, millions would be needed, and on two historic occasions the billions of cells of the entire Paladorian consciousness had been welded together to deal with emergencies that threatened the race. The mind of Palador was one of the greatest mental resources of the Universe; its full force was seldom required, but the knowledge that it was available was supremely comforting to other races. Alarkane wondered how many cells had coordinated to deal with this particular emergency. He also wondered how so trivial an incident had ever come to its attention.

To that question he was never to know the answer, though he might have guessed it had he known that the chillingly remote Paladorian mind possessed an almost human streak of vanity. Long ago, Alarkane had written a book trying to prove that eventually all intelligent races would sacrifice individual consciousness and that one day only group-minds would remain in the Universe. Palador, he had said, was the first of those ultimate intellects, and the vast, dispersed mind had not been displeased.

They had no time to ask any further questions before Alveron himself began to speak through their communicators.

“Alveron calling! We’re staying on this planet until the detonation waves reach it, so we may be able to rescue you. You’re heading toward a city on the coast which you’ll reach in forty minutes at your present speed. If you cannot stop yourselves then, we’re going to blast the tunnel behind and ahead of you to cut off your power. Then we’ll sink a shaft to get you out the chief engineer says he can do it in five minutes with the main projectors. So you should be safe within an hour, unless the sun blows up before.”

“And if that happens, you’ll be destroyed as well! You mustn’t take such a risk!”

“Don’t let that worry you; we’re perfectly safe. When the sun detonates, the explosion wave will take several minutes to rise to its maximum. But apart from that, we’re on the night side of the planet, behind an eight-thousand-mile screen of rock. When the first warning of the explosion comes, we will accelerate out of the Solar System, keeping in the shadow of the planet. Under our maximum drive, we will reach the velocity of light before leaving the cone of shadow, and the sun cannot harm us then.”

T’sinadree was still afraid to hope. Another objection came at once into his mind.

“Yes, but how will you get any warning, here on the night side of the planet?”

“Very easily,” replied Alveron. “This world has a moon which is now visible from this hemisphere. We have telescopes trained on it. If it shows any sudden increase in brilliance, our main drive goes on automatically and we’ll be thrown out of the system.”

The logic was flawless. Alveron, cautious as ever, was taking no chances. It would be many minutes before the eight-thousand-mile shield of rock and metal could be destroyed by the fires of the exploding sun. In that time, the S9000 could have reached the safety of the velocity of light.

Alarkane pressed the second button when they were still several miles from the coast. He did not expect anything to happen then, assuming that the machine could not stop between stations. It seemed too good to be true when, a few minutes later, the machine’s slight vibration died away and they came to a halt.

The doors slid silently apart. Even before they were fully open, the three had left the compartment. They were taking no more chances. Before them a long tunnel stretched into the distance, rising slowly out of sight. They were starting along it when suddenly Alveron’s voice called from the communicators.

“Stay where you are! We’re going to blast!”

The ground shuddered once, and far ahead there came the rumble of falling rock. Again the earth shook and a hundred yards ahead the passageway vanished abruptly. A tremendous vertical shaft had been cut clean through it.

The party hurried forward again until they came to the end of the corridor and stood waiting on its lip. The shaft in which it ended was a full thousand feet across and descended into the earth as far as the torches could throw their beams. Overhead, the storm clouds fled beneath a moon that no man would have recognized, so luridly brilliant was its disk. And, most glorious of all sights, the S9000 floated high above, the great projectors that had drilled this enormous pit still glowing cherry red.

A dark shape detached itself from the mother ship and dropped swiftly toward the ground. Torkalee was returning to collect his friends. A little later, Alveron greeted them in the control room. He waved to the great vision screen and said quietly, “See, we were barely in time.”

The continent below them was slowly settling beneath the mile-high waves that were attacking its coasts. The last that anyone was ever to see of Earth was a great plain, bathed with the silver light of the abnormally brilliant moon. Across its face the waters were pouring in a glittering flood toward a distant range of mountains. The sea had won its final victory, but its triumph would be short-lived for soon sea and land would be no more. Even as the silent party in the control room watched the destruction below, the infinitely greater catastrophe to which this was only the prelude came swiftly upon them.

It was as though dawn had broken suddenly over this moonlit landscape. But it was not dawn: it was only the moon, shining with the brilliance of a second sun. For perhaps thirty seconds that awesome, unnatural light burnt fiercely on the doomed land beneath. Then there came a sudden flashing of indicator lights across the control board. The main drive was on. For a second Alveron glanced at the indicators and checked their information. When he looked again at the screen, Earth was gone.

The magnificent, desperately overstrained generators quietly died when the S9000 was passing the orbit of Persephone. It did not matter, the sun could never harm them now, and although the ship was speeding helplessly out into the lonely night of interstellar space, it would only be a matter of days before rescue came.

There was irony in that. A day ago, they had been the rescuers, going to the aid of a race that now no longer existed. Not for the first time Alveron wondered about the world that had just perished. He tried, in vain, to picture it as it had been in its glory, the streets of its cities thronged with life. Primitive though its people had been, they might have offered much to the Universe. If only they could have made contact! Regret was useless; long before their coming, the people of this world must have buried themselves in its iron heart. And now they and their civilization would remain a mystery for the rest of time.

Alveron was glad when his thoughts were interrupted by Rugon’s entrance. The chief of communications had been very busy ever since the take-off, trying to analyze the programs radiated by the transmitter Orostron had discovered. The problem was not a difficult one, but it demanded the construction of special equipment, and that had taken time.

“Well, what have you found?” asked Alveron.

“Quite a lot,” replied his friend. “There’s something mysterious here, and I don’t understand it.

“It didn’t take long to find how the vision transmissions were built up, and we’ve been able to convert them to suit our own equipment. It seems that there were cameras all over the planet, surveying points of interest. Some of them were apparently in cities, on the tops of very high buildings. The cameras were rotating continuously to give panoramic views. In the programs we’ve recorded there are about twenty different scenes.

“In addition, there are a number of transmissions of a different kind, neither sound nor vision. They seem to be purely scientific possibly instrument readings or something of that sort. All these programs were going out simultaneously on different frequency bands.

“Now there must be a reason for all this. Orostron still thinks that the station simply wasn’t switched off when it was deserted. But these aren’t the sort of programs such a station would normally radiate at all. It was certainly used for interplanetary -relaying Klarten was quite right there. So these people must have crossed space, since none of the other planets had any life at the time of the last survey. Don’t you agree?”

Alveron was following intently.

“Yes, that seems reasonable enough. But it’s also certain that the beam was pointing to none of the other planets. I checked that myself.”

“I know,” said Rugon. “What I want to discover is why a giant interplanetary relay station is busily transmitting pictures of a world about to be destroyed pictures that would be of immense interest to scientists and astronomers. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to arrange all those panoramic cameras. I am convinced that those beams were going somewhere.”

Alveron started up.

“Do you imagine that there might be an outer planet that hasn’t been reported?” he asked. “If so, your theory’s certainly wrong. The beam wasn’t even pointing in the plane of the Solar System. And even if it were just look at this.”

He switched on the vision screen and adjusted the controls. Against the velvet curtain of space was hanging a blue-white sphere, apparently composed of many concentric shells of incandescent gas. Even though its immense distance made all movement invisible, it was clearly expanding at an enormous rate. At its center was a blinding point of light the white dwarf star that the sun had now become.

“You probably don’t realize just how big that sphere is,” said Alveron. “Look at this.”

He increased the magnification until only the center portion of the nova was visible. Close to its heart were two minute condensations, one on either side of the nucleus.

“Those are the two giant planets of the system. They have still managed to retain their existence after a fashion. And they were several hundred million miles from the sun. The nova is still expanding but it’s already twice the size of the Solar System.”

Rugon was silent for a moment.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, rather grudgingly. “You’ve disposed of my first theory. But you still haven’t satisfied me.”

He made several swift circuits of the room before speaking again. Alveron waited patiently. He knew the almost intuitive powers of his friend, who could often solve a problem when mere logic seemed insufficient.

Then, rather slowly, Rugon began to speak again.

“What do you think of this?” he said. “Suppose we’ve completely underestimated this people? Orostron did it once he thought they could never have crossed space, since they’d only known radio for two centuries. Hansur II told me that. Well, Orostron was quite wrong. Perhaps we’re all wrong. I’ve had a look at the material that Klarten brought back from the transmitter. He wasn’t impressed by what he found, but it’s a marvelous achievement for so short a time. There were devices in that station that belonged to civilizations thousands of years older. Alveron, can we follow that beam to see where it leads?”

Alveron said nothing for a full minute. He had been more than half expecting the question, but it was not an easy one to answer. The main generators had gone completely. There was no point in trying to repair them. But there was still power available, and while there was power, anything could be done in time. It would mean a lot of improvisation, and some difficult maneuvers, for the ship still had its enormous initial velocity. Yes, it could be done, and the activity would keep the crew from becoming further depressed, now that the reaction caused by the mission’s failure had started to set in. The news that the nearest heavy repair ship could not reach them for three weeks had also caused a slump in morale.

The engineers, as usual, made a tremendous fuss. Again as usual, they did the job in half the time they had dismissed as being absolutely impossible. Very slowly, over many hours, the great ship began to discard the speed its main drive had given it in as many minutes. In a tremendous curve, millions of miles in radius, the S9000 changed its course and the star fields shifted round it.

The maneuver took three days, but at the end of that time the ship was limping along a course parallel to the beam that had once come from Earth. They were heading out into emptiness, the blazing sphere that had been the sun dwindling slowly behind them. By the standards of interstellar flight, they were almost stationary.

For hours Rugon strained over his instruments, driving his detector beams far ahead into space. There were certainly no planets within many light-years; there was no doubt of that. From time to time Alveron came to see him and always he had to give the same reply: “Nothing to report.” About a fifth of the time Rugon’s intuition let him down badly; he began to wonder if this was such an occasion.

Not until a week later did the needles of the mass-detectors quiver feebly at the ends of their scales. But Rugon said nothing, not even to his captain. He waited until he was sure, and he went on waiting until even the short-range scanners began to react, and to build up the first faint pictures on the vision screen. Still he waited patiently until he could interpret the images. Then, when he knew that his wildest fancy was even less than the truth, he called his colleagues into the control room.

The picture on the vision screen was the familiar one of endless star fields, sun beyond sun to the very limits of the Universe. Near the center of the screen a distant nebula made a patch of haze that was difficult for the eye to grasp.

Rugon increased the magnification. The stars flowed out of the field; the little nebula expanded until it filled the screen and then it was a nebula no longer. A simultaneous gasp of amazement came from all the company at the sight that lay before them.

Lying across league after league of space, ranged in a vast three-dimensional array of rows and columns with the precision of a marching army, were thousands of tiny pencils of light. They were moving swiftly; the whole immense lattice holding its shape as a single unit. Even as Alveron and his comrades watched, the formation began to drift off the screen and Rugon had to recenter the controls.

After a long pause, Rugon started to speak.

“This is the race,” he said softly, “that has known radio for only two centuries the race that we believed had crept to die in the heart of its planet. I have examined those images under the highest possible magnification.

“That is the greatest fleet of which there has ever been a record. Each of those points of light represents a ship larger than our own. Of course, they are very primitive what you see on the screen are the jets of their rockets. Yes, they dared to use rockets to bridge interstellar space! You realize what that means. It would take them centuries to reach the nearest star. The whole race must have embarked on this journey in the hope that its descendants would complete it, generations later.

“To measure the extent of their accomplishment, think of the ages it took us to conquer space, and the longer ages still before we attempted to reach the stars. Even if we were threatened with annihilation, could we have done so much in so short a time? Remember, this is the youngest civilization in the Universe. Four hundred thousand years ago it did not even exist. What will it be a million years from now?”

An hour later, Orostron left the crippled mother ship to make contact with the great fleet ahead. As the little torpedo disappeared among the stars, Alveron turned to his friend and made a remark that Rugon was often to remember in the years ahead.

“I wonder what they’ll be like?” he mused. “Will they be nothing but wonderful engineers, with no art or philosophy? They’re going to have such a surprise when Orostron reaches them I expect it will be rather a blow to their pride. It’s funny how all isolated races think they’re the only people in the Universe. But they should be grateful to us; we’re going to save them a good many hundred years of travel.”

Alveron glanced at the Milky Way, lying like a veil of silver mist across the vision screen. He waved toward it with a sweep of a tentacle that embraced the whole circle of the galaxy, from the Central Planets to the lonely suns of the Rim.

“You know,” he said to Rugon, “I feel rather afraid of these people. Suppose they don’t like our little Federation?” He waved once more toward the star-clouds that lay massed across the screen, glowing with the light of their countless suns.

“Something tells me they’ll be very determined people,” he added. “We had better be polite to them. After all, we only outnumber them about a thousand million to one.”

Rugon laughed at his captain’s little joke.

Twenty years afterward, the remark didn’t seem funny.

The End

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Some selected favorite artworks by William Adolphe Bouguereau with a slight detour towards the crazed religious Right in charge of the American government

This is going to be a (far too abbreviated) article about the great paintings of a man that the world has seemingly forgotten. Which is a shame. But it is also something else as well. For I am going to get really, and absolutely personal about art and what it means to me, and about the United States as well.

You see, and must understand, art is a creation that massages our emotions. If that art generates good thoughts, or treasured memories within us, it becomes priceless and valuable. But consider what would happen if somehow an evil person is able to take that treasured moment away from you. What then?

Thus this post.

The artist that we shall discuss is one of my all-time favorites. His name was William Adolphe Bouguereau, and I had the opportunity to see his works up front and close up in the Carnegie Mellon museum of art in Oakland, Pennsylvania (It’s an upscale suburb of Pittsburgh.)

And while he is no longer popular or appreciated in Art History class, his works and the emotions that they generate lives on through MM.

Carnegie Mellon museum of art in Oakland, Pennsylvania
Carnegie Mellon museum of art in Oakland, Pennsylvania

Indeed, he is not forgotten here.

Fundamentally, William Adolphe Bouguereau was a most amazing painter. And while his paintings inspire and astound, when you look at his works up close, you wonder just how in the world was he able to do what he did. Up close, everything just seems to be dabs and drabs of paint here and there.

You can well imagine him put a drop here, and then a drop there, and then somehow, by some miracle it all comes together in an amazing work of art.

He is considered to be a “French Academic Classical painter, teacher, frescoist and draftsman”. He died in 1905 after 432 amazing works of art.

To see a complete collection of his works you can visit the Art Renewal Center here. Prepare to be stunned and amazed. (Pssst. You can also order prints of his works there to put up in your house or favored spot. - Just a thought. Don't you know.)

What I really want to say about this is that beauty surrounds us everywhere.

And if you have an opportunity, take an afternoon with friends or family and visit an Art museum, and then have a nice lunch. Go out. Have fun. Enjoy life. And if by chance you ever get the chance to see any Academic Classic paintings, by all means go forth and enjoy.

Check out his amazing works.

Inside the art museum.
Having a fun time with the family inside the Carnegie Mellon art museum.

Sigh.

And now the sad part of the story.

I strongly love art for the emotions, the memories and the images that they represent to me on a very personal and visceral basis. While I have never been able to match the mastery of the oils as these Masters have, they have inspired me. And I have taken on my own efforts to pain figurative and allegorical works of my own design. And I like to think of myself as “pretty good”, I would only rate a “7” compared to the Master that is listed herein. Who is, in every way, a “10+”.

Up until my arrest (as part of my “retirement” from the MAJestic organization) I had a nice little studio. I had studios in Kittanning, and Erie Pennsylvania, and in Arkansas. My little studio in Arkansas occupied the garage. And so it was a “partial” studio. One side was bicycle storage, boxes, and a workbench. The other side was a canvas tarp covered floor, natural lighting via light-bulb and my massive painting easel.

The tale of how I was arrested, and how my life was dissembled step by methodical step is a very painful one for me. At that time, I had no idea that I would actually be “retired” as a MAJestic operator. I figured that I was somehow “special” and that my program participation would consist of a debriefing at a government office of some type. But, that did not happen.

I wasn’t important.

At least the (government) powers that be didn’t think that I was. And so, one day, out of the blue I was arrested. And I watched my life fall apart right before my eyes. I watched the entire force of an enormous and all-powerful government peel my life apart, layer by layer until I was raw, nude and helpless.

This story is still painful for me to relate.

Sorry you seem so butt-hurt about the IRS and the USA, etc. Obviously you have a seething rage and hatred for the USA for whatever (unexplained) reason . That’s OK. Stay in China and hate us all you want. Works for me.

-A quote from a jack-ass who was trolling me.

As it is indeed still very painful, I am not going to relate it at this time. But, (unfortunately) in order to know about one of my favorite artists, you will need to know a little bit about HOW I was arrested in Arkansas…

…and how it has affected my love of classical art.

Connecting art with sexual deviance

It’s simple, really.

I had a collection of books on art. many were on techniques, but others were these huge “coffee table” books that people would place on the living room coffee table for casual enjoyment. I had quite a collection of them. And most of my books were of the classics. All full of art by true and real masters.

And, on that fateful day when I was arrested in Arkansas, my large picture book of William Adolphe Bouguereau was used as evidence of my “satanic nature”, and “lust for little children“.

I well remember sitting on the lone chair in the middle of my empty living room…

All of my belongings except for my books, and a mysterious box full of CD ROMS were gone. My home was completely empty including the light bulbs and the light switch covers. Even the fake fireplace had the fake logs gone. As was the built-in microwave, and refrigerator.

On that fateful day, I had just gotten back from a three week trip to China. When I returned I discovered that my car was disabled with four flat tires, my power was turned off, and my home was completely empty except for two chairs, and a pile of books and a big (taped up) box displayed predominantly in the middle of the living room floor.

They raided me in full SWAT gear at 6am as I was leaving the house to go to work. Their black painted armored cars ran over my rose bushes, and two other squad cars blocked up the driveway to my house - a downscale McMansion in a nice section of Maumelle Arkansas.
Maumelle Arkansas house.
My house at the time looked a little something like this, only a tad bigger and my grass much much greener. LOL.

…I sat there, in that lone chair in the middle of the empty living room …

…while the detective in charge of the “investigation” grilled me on sexual matters and my interests. I’ll never forget her holding up my coffee table book of William Adolphe Bouguereau, and making points about all the nudes, the “Satanic nature of my interests” and why I was so fixated on “the dark side of history“.

It has wounded me terribly, and I still smart from their fucking smirks and ignorance. I know, I know…

…it’s Arkansas.

But still. It came as a surprise. You see. While I have read about these things happening, I never thought that it would happen to me.

And since (from now on and forever hence) I will always have those memories associated with certain artists and works of art, I will use that venue to provide the bitter-sweet love of art that I maintain after I was dissembled and “processed” by the jackasses in Arkansas.

I discuss this fact, and my experiences in this article.

Good ol’ boys decided my fate.

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Let’s begin with one of my all-time favorite paintings…

Nymphes et Satyre

Four nymphs tease and play with a satyr by trying to pull him into a lake. One nymph waves behind to three other nymphs in the distance, perhaps beckoning them to come and play with the satyr as well. The satyr half heartedly tries to resist the nymph’s wiles, entranced by their beauty.

Nymphes et Satyre Nymphs and Satyr 260 x 180 cms | 102 1/4 x 70 3/4 ins Oil on canvas Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute Williamstown | United States

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You don’t really need to know what nymphs are, or what satyrs are to appreciate this work. But knowing the story behind them adds a three-dimensional understanding of the art and what is being portrayed.

Nymphs are from Greek mythology. 

They are considered to be minor female deities, and have a duty to protect different elements of nature such as streams, mountains and meadows (pantheon). 

The male counterpart for a nymph is a satyr. A satyr is a creature also from Greek mythology having the torso and face of a man, ears and tail of a horse, and feet of a goat. They are known for being lustful and fertile creatures. 

I can’t help but respond that Bouguereau captures an incredible sense of motion in this piece.

One can feel the struggle for the satyr to keep his ground, and the nymphs’ joyous struggle to pull him in. You can just feel the easy going, caviler attitude and peace in the pastoral scene. You can hear the water nymph’s jovial joking and feel their tugging towards the placid pond.

It’s like puppies playing. Or like kittens running around. It’s like small boys and girls playing in the yard on a nice sunny blue-sky day. It’s like Fresca and orange soda, peanut butter sandwiches and very-berry Cool-Aide. It’s water out of a green water-hose on a hot summer day, climbing trees, and riding your banana-seat, high-handle-bars bike all around town.

Childhood in the 1960s.
When I look at this work of art, I am transported back to another time. It makes me forget my current life, and re-experience the feelings and emotions and sensations of another time and another place.

.

Why I love this picture is actually unknown. Somehow, and in some deep way it stirs my soul. But I really cannot vocalize what that special something is. It speaks to me in a deep visceral manner.

.

And that’s the way life is. Not everyone can appreciate how you might feel about a “thing”, or an “object”, or a “piece of art”, or a “bauble”. So you just don’t try.

Consider the Movie “The Object of Beauty“.

It’s pretty much a forgotten movie. Not well appreciated. Just something from the early 1990’s. But it makes a point about what art and beauty and appreciation is… all in terms of the early 1990’s – the decades of greed, swindles and anything / everything for a buck.

And that movie revolves around a small figurine statue. One that is worth money. But is coveted by the owners as a medium of exchange, but stolen by a housekeeper who appreciates it’s intangible beauty…

*sigh*

rare gem overlooked as much as statue                                  nuntukamen18 December 2004             
                              
It is difficult for  me to comprehend why there is only one viewer comment for this film, or  why it is rated under a six. 

If an excellent film is about  entertainment, intelligence, great acting and a terrific story with a  treasury of clever humor that expounds the deeper meaning of a good  relationship between a man and a woman over wealth and selfishly egotistical success, then this is a standout film that achieves a  richness of artistic accomplishment that very few films do. 

No one truly sees the beauty of the bronze statue except the lowly and weathered housekeeper, a financially struggling mute, unable to express the  profound feelings that are moving within her in words, but Rudi Davies  sure gets it across with her expression and eyes. 

I had to drive 30  miles to the Cedar Lee Theater, Cleveland's only real art house, during it's original release, but after the film was over I realized it would have been worthwhile if I would have had to walk...

...some films are just that special.
"The Object of Beauty"
The Object of Beauty

.

But back to the painting…

When I was a young boy, I actually saw this painting. It sat there predominantly on the wall facing the stairs as you walked up and into the museum proper. My parents went it, and took the right at the top of the stairs and enters. But I didn’t.

And to be very truthful, I just stood there on the steps looking up at it in amazement. It was larger than life to me and spoke to me…

…though, as a boy, I didn’t understand the language.

This work of art is spellbinding.

.

Art and the appreciation of it is a personal matter. And today, art is used as a medium to funnel large amounts of money back and forth between oligarchy members without concern. It’s a method of banking. Not an object of beauty, desire or of significance.

Today, ah, no one cares

As an aside, the DA in Arkansas used my collection of books on art and artists as exhibits as to how terribly “evil” I was. I cannot remember the entire spiel that he gave to my attorney, because frankly, I was taken back at his ignorance and assault on my sensibilities. But a couple phrases stood out…

  • “...a painting depicting Satan surrounded by nude women…”
  • (my) “...obsession with female nudes…”

What is art and beautiful to one observer is evil and a threat to another. Do not make my mistake and think that everyone else can see beauty as you can, or who can understand things as you do, or who appreciates the world in different ways.

And when I was arrested, it was not for the possession of these works of art, or associated books. It was for two images on my laptop computer.

  • A Japanese comic that had a octopus having sex with a cat-like-person.
  • A photo that a doctor said was a girl under the age of 18 showing her genitals.

In Arkansas both images are considered “child pornography”. And each image had up to 40 years imprisonment. So I was facing 80 years.

Pretty fucking weird for a state that allowed people to get married to 16 year old girls. Was a “dry country” where you had to drive into Tennessee to buy alcohol. And where the Church in Down Town Little Rock was larger than the State Capital Building.

You know, I shared a cell in Arkansas at the ADC Brickey’s unit who got two years for killing a guy. I got five years for having two pictures. I just shake my head in perplexing exasperation.

But I digress.

I guess, at heart, I’m just a “hippie”, a “60’s child”.

1960s van.
Hippies in the 1960’s.

.

Can you imagine what America would have been like if the Bozos that run America today were in charge of America back in the 1960’s?

Shudder.

GOP lawmaker: God told me to remove rape exceptions from ...
https://deadstate.org/gop-lawmaker-god-told-me-to...

May 24, 2019 · Hill, who is an evangelical Christian, says that the initial exceptions were only there to ensure that the bill would pass. Even though it picked up 20 co-sponsors, it died without getting a hearing in any committee. Hill told the group in Pensacola that he plans to bring the bill back as God intended it, “without any exceptions.”

The point that I want to make is that the emotions that I now feel when I look at these great works of art are now polluted with the imagery of my memories when I dealt with the military police in Arkansas. And while my story seems to be unique, all of the rest of my MAJestic cell had similar stories. And yes, others now call me a real sick person for having those images on my computer. I get it. I understand.

And now, I live a life where I cannot enjoy art like I used to.

I’ll never forget the phrase “you can paint houses“.

And this gem; “no one wants to see paintings like this when all you need do is take a picture“.

And of course the standard narrative; “people like you need to be locked up and separated from society until your malfunction can be corrected“.

We must realize and recognize that there are others, often sick people, who are in positions of power and control and who can squash your life out like an insect. Sick people. Evil people. In positions of power.

Mike Pompeo

.

Takes away from the beauty of that great painting, eh?

Yes.

That’s my point.

Pat Robertson says God told him Trump ‘is going to win ...
https://www.christianpost.com/news/pat-robertson...

Oct 21, 2020 · Christian Broadcasting Network chairman and televangelist Pat Robertson said Monday that he believes God told him President Donald Trump will be re-elected for a second term but great civil unrest will ensue. “I want to say without question, Trump is going to win the election,” Robertson said on “The 700 Club” Tuesday. “… The election that’s coming up in just a few weeks at which time, according to what I believe the Lord told …

Art is all about the emotions you have while looking at the artwork

I enjoy art because of the feelings and the thoughts and memories they generate.

But, you know…

Some people cannot emote.

They cannot feel emotions. They cannot “relate” to others they are unable to emote or understand how others feel. To them, they cannot see art as anything other than a “thing”, a commodity that you can trick others into buying. These people with this mental illness occupy a significant percentage of our society. Some say that it is even as high as 10%. But one thing is for certain, the ability to make money and accumulate fortunes are in the strong suit for these people.

Thus, in a nation that values money above all else, where capitalism reins supreme you will find these people in positions of power and control.

Key “Republican” members of Government during the Trump Administration.

.

The American leadership; the American Oligarchy are are… are… unable to emote. They are unable to experience emotions or understand the emotions of others.

Why?

What are these people’s problem?

Perhaps this video might provide some insight to how the rest of the world views America at this point in time. A point in time, mind you, where the government does not care about the citizens. It only cares of about keeping them down, subservient, and compliant, while they run amok in their crazy delusions and obscene objectives.

Uh…

And one more thing, you will never see this kind of information on any of the Alt-Right, Alt-Left or Mainstream American media. They would rather die than face the truth.

America as viewed by the rest of the world.

Keep that thought in mind. A thought that says that the craziest and most evil people thrive within the American capitalist “democracy” as it exists today. And the most evil, the most selfish, and the most manipulative are able to rise to extreme levels of power and control within the American environment.

Ah.

It’s upsetting.

But let’s move one and look at some more Art. Let’s consider the fact that unlike the products that are churned out of America today, these works endure. They persist and they are established as a stable foundation for what the human species represents. Let’s look at some more of the great works by William Adolphe Bouguereau.

La Vierge aux Anges

Here we have a trio of angels playing music for baby Jesus and the Virgin Mother Mary. I love this picture, and it evokes in me the feelings of love caring, compassion and peace.

This painting can be seen elsewhere on the internet. It is embraced by religious websites and in the websites devoted to greeting and gift cards. I have even seen (I believe) this work reproduced on pictures, post cards, and such things as plates and clocks. A simple image search on Google will help you all find the great diversity of the for-profit avenues that people have used with this work.

The Virgin with Angels
The Virgin with Angels

.

Usually, Mary is depicted in blue and white, which I haven’t a clue as to why. And the angels tend to be in shades of white, which is also something that I have no idea about either. Never the less, this is a beautiful painting and very calming.

The Virgin with Angels is a 1900 painting by William-Adolphe Bouguereau. The painting media is oil on canvas, and it measures 185 × 285 cm (72.8 × 112.2 in). It’s a large painting at 6 feet by 9 feet. I imagine that when he painted this, he intended to show the love of the Mother Mary with the baby Jesus and the beauty and support of the surrounding angels. I cannot imagine what he would think that this image was being used on plates and cheap products at Walmart to support a for-profit motive.

When my home was raided they said nothing about this picture. Except maybe a quick pause before they turned the page. It’s hard to find something fundamentally wrong with angels playing violins and other musical instruments. So they just glossed over this painting and went on to the next one..

It’s lovely. Don’t you agree?

Petites Maraudeuses

But they did stop at this painting in the book.

This is a typical work of his. His works that depict children and the life of play are great themes and I well remember some homes of both uncles and aunties that had these kinds of works in their living rooms. (Of course, with a “Great Supper” painting in the kitchen or dining room.)

It is so calming…

It is titled “Little Thieves”. And while the detective and the police didn’t stop to read the captions or text inside the coffee table book, they used the artwork to grill me and goad me to admit to something ignorant and evil.

Petites Maraudeuses

.

I once worked with a fellow engineer in Boston. He was a plastics engineer from Pakistan. He saw that I had a miniature reproduction (of this painting) in my office and fell in love with the painting. He used to come into my office and we would chat. But he would always look up at the painting with this kind of far-away look in his eyes. It meant something to him. But his pride was such that he would never admit to it.

So I gave it to him when I was sacked by the company (Laid Off). When I gave it to him he was surprised and he wondered why I did so, and that yes (of course) he would accept it. He said that he secretly loved the painting. He said that it reminded him of his boyhood home. In Pakistan.

Lovely.

The techniques of Bouguereau

You have to admit that this artist had mastered his technique. Is there anything for us to learn?

From the Art Renewal Center

To fully appreciate the art of  Bouguereau  one must profess a deep respect for the discipline of drawing and the  craft of traditional picture-making; one must likewise submit to the  mystery of illusion as one of painting's most characteristic and sublime  powers. Bouguereau's vast repertory of playful and poetic images cannot  help but appeal to those who are fascinated with nature's appearances  and with the celebration of human sentiment frankly and unabashedly  expressed.         
                                           
But it remains to understand, given Bouguereau's in many  ways unique style, exactly what the artist was trying to represent.  Although Bouguereau has been classified by many writers as a Realist  painter, because of the apparent photographic nature of his illusions,  the painter otherwise has little in common with other artists belonging  to the Realist movement. Bouguereau himself regarded his tastes as  eclectic, and his work indeed exhibits characteristics peculiar to  Neo-Classicism, Romanticism, and Impressionism, as well as to Realism.  

Within these categories, the painter is perhaps best understood as a  Romantic Realist, but one would also be quite justified in this case in  devising an entirely new school of painting and labeling him the first,  the quintessential Photo-Idealist. The designation is apt in that,  although Bouguereau actively collected photographs and tempered his  observations of nature with a keen awareness of the qualities of light  inherent in the photographic image, he almost never worked from  photographs.1  

The rare exceptions are a few portraits, usually of posthumous  subjects, which are readily identifiable as photographic derivatives as  they exhibit an uncharacteristic flatness and pose.         
                      
Bouguereau and his fellow academicians practiced a method of  painting that had been developed and refined over the centuries in  order to bring to vivid life imagined scenes from history, literature,  and fantasy. The process of acquisition of the skills necessary to  produce a first-rate academic painting was a long and laborious one. 

...

             
The idealizations of Bouguereau's imaginary universe, which  have delighted some critics, have incurred the wrath of others. Although  some of the latter have loudly lamented the over-romanticized image of  the French peasant presented by the painter, few of them have bothered  to contemplate the heroic attention required to sustain such a vision of  perfection in a less than perfect age. Moreover, as Bouguereau's  contemporary Emile Bayard observed:         
                                   
It is good to note, in any case, that dirt and rags are not  exclusive to the underprivileged and that indigence is not always  clothed the same way. 4         
                      
A similar charge often leveled at Bouguereau is that his art  bears little or no relationship to the realities of political,  industrial, and urban life in nineteenth-century France. 

But if  Bouguereau's art ignores in its content the pressing issues of the day,  it may very well be because the artist, though well aware of them,  nevertheless prompts us to lift our eyes from the ground and focus upon  the lures of distant Arcadia; when misery is afoot, to exalt the more  pleasant possibilities of la vie champetre is not artistic falsehood.         
                      
If one pronounces Bouguereau to have been out of step with  his time, what must one then conclude about the many, many critics and  collectors and viewers who supported him and others of a similar  artistic persuasion? Could he really have achieved such prominence and  financial success by going against the grain of the "realities" of the  nineteenth century? 

Exactly what are those realities and exactly what  attitude was a visual artist obligated to take toward them? If the  accomplishments of Bouguereau are poorly understood today, that may have  something to do with the shifting of aesthetic expectations over time.  

As for Bouguereau's public, it was a public raised on  Raphael , a public that had not yet been conditioned to prefer abstract ideas to  the palpable images that give them utterance, a public that insisted  upon an obvious narrative content and that saw in Bouguereau someone  opposed to the trends it regarded as inimical to art. 

It may very well  be that a determining factor in Bouguereau's success as a painter, apart  from his talent, was that he allied himself to that sizeable,  conservative, and revisionist element of French Roman Catholicism which,  under the aegis of such men as Louis Veuillot , popular theologian and publisher of L'Univers, refused to yield to the attacks on traditional ideals that were current at the time. 

The craft of picture-making as practiced by Bouguereau basically followed the principles of academic theory as codified by the seventeenth-century aesthetician Roger de Piles.

The code embodied the fundamental idea whereby a painting could be judged logically and objectively by its conformity to ideals established for its divisible parts, which were determined to be: composition, drawing, color harmony, and expression.

The method Bouguereau used to execute his important paintings provided ample opportunity for the study and resolution of problems that might arise in each of these areas.

The separate steps leading to the genesis of a painting were:

  • Croquis and tracings
  • Oil sketch and/or grisaille study
  • Highly finished drawings for all the figures in the composition, as well as drapery studies and foliage studies
  • Detailed studies in oil for heads, hands, animals, etc.
  • Cartoon; and, only then
  • the finished painting.

Evidently Bouguereau was constantly making croquis or “thumb nail sketches.” Often these preliminary studies were done during meetings at the Institut or in the evenings after supper.

For the most part they were scribbled from the artist’s memory or imagination, others were sketched directly from nature.

These drawings, hitherto unknown to the public, constitute a very important element of Bouguereau’s work. For one thing, they yield a wealth of information about the artist’s method.

They also show in many cases how a particular composition evolved. Executed either in pencil or ink, they served as a means of determining the grandes lignes, the important linear flows and arabesques, within the entire composition and within individual figure groups as well. They were often refined by means of successive tracings.

The oil sketches, grisailles, and compositional studies in vine charcoal served as means for determining appropriate color harmonies and for the “spotting” of lights and darks.

Like the croquis, these were usually executed from imagination and yielded a fairly abstract pattern of colors and greys upon which the artist would later superimpose his observations from nature.

The figure drawings represented the first important contact with nature in the evolution of the work. Among the considerations of the artist at this point were anatomy, pose, foreshortening, perspective, proportion and, to some degree, modeling. Although Bouguereau was reputed to have the best models in Paris, some of them were not always the most cooperative; as one observer noted:

Bouguereau's Italian model-women are instructed to bring their infant offspring, their tiny sisters and brothers, and the progeny of their highly prolific quarter. 

Once in the studio, the little human frogs are undressed and allowed to roll around on the floor, to play, to quarrel, and to wail in lamentation. 

They dirty up the room a great deal — they bring in a great deal of dirt that they do not make. They are neither savory nor aristocratic nor angelic, these brats from the embryo-land of Virgil. 

But out of them the artist makes his capital. Sketchbook in hand, he records their movements as they tumble on the floor; he draws the curves and turns of their aldermanic bodies, and he counts the creases of fat on their plump thighs as Audobon counted the scales on the legs of his humming-birds. 7

At times Bouguereau was obliged to use sculptural sources. J. Carroll Beckwith wrote:

Entering Bouguereau's studio one morning, before he had come up from his breakfast, I was studying with interest a large canvas half completed, representing a group of laughing children with a donkey [see cat. no. 72]. 

A gaudily attired Italian woman was endeavoring to pacify a curly-headed cherub, the model for the morning, who was ruthlessly rubbing his dirty fingers over some exquisite pencil drawings which lay on the floor at the foot of the easel. 

I rescued the drawings, while the mother apologetically explained to me in Neapolitan French that M. Bouguereau spoiled all of her children so that she could do nothing with them at home or elsewhere. 

The drawings were beautiful reproductions of the Laughing Faun in the sculpture gallery of the Louvre. 

As Bouguereau entered the room, he began a series of frolics with the youngster which quite verified the words of the mother. [When be stopped] at last to set his palette, I asked him when he had made the drawings. "Oh, you see, that mauvais sujet is so wicked", said he, pointing to the curly-headed urchin turning somersaults on the floor, "that I can use him for nothing but color and was obliged to spend nearly all of yesterday afternoon at the Louvre, making these notes for the form. 8

If a particular figure was to be clothed, Bouguereau would also make drapery studies by posing a mannequin in place of the model and experimenting with the folds of cloth until a disposition was found that enhanced the underlying forms.

Sometimes, especially for small or single-figure paintings, Bouguereau drew the model already draped.

Most of the figure drawings were executed in pencil or charcoal (or a combination of the two) and were often heightened with white. The support for them is usually a heavyweight toned paper of medium grain; such a background allowed Bouguereau to dispense with the problem of rendering troublesome halftones which, in any event, were more easily and accurately realized in the painted studies.

To read more about his techniques, please go HERE. It goes into great detail and goes into the various mixes he used. Great stuff for certain.

Can you imagine trying to do this today? Man oh man, you’d be locked up for-ever.

Alma Parens L’âme parentale

Wow. Oh wow. This is an allegorical painting with a ton-load of meaning. It means “The Motherland”.

Of course, the folk in Arkansas found this work “disgusting“, “abhorrent to normal sensibilities” and further evidence of my “sick nature” and “outrageously dangerous desires”.

Sigh.

And yeah, I get it.

You all don’t want to hear what the nit-wits think in Arkansas. But you are gonna hear about it here. You can leave if you don’t like to face reality. The last four years in Washington was populated with these exact kind of people. And no, I am not going to “let by-gones be by-gones”

It’s a uni-party. There are no Republicans nor Democrats. There is just the 10% of psychopaths that run the nation, and the rest of us being treated like cattle in the process.

Is this too “salty” for ya?

The Motherland

.

I know that I am supposed to accept the fact that anything even remotely suggestive of children or sex is a threat to my very existence as I am now branded with the scarlet letter of being a “Sex Offender”. And I know that somehow, having those two images on my computer; the cartoon and the photo of the chick without clothes on created “victims”. I cannot reconcile how the image of a mother tending to her brood is in any way representative of the horrors so massively promoted in American media. You have to be a moron to connect the two…

…but, you know, have you looked at America today?

Know who you are dealing with, and recognize that these people still are in various positions in government today. Look at this jackass. Look at this pencil neck.

Tom Cotton (R-AR) is in a position of power to tell you how to live your life.

.

Hey, check out the kinds of bills that he was working on in 2020. Keep in mind this one very important point. Which of his sponsored bills actually helps and supports normal, working people inside his district in Arkansas. Yeah. go over the list.

Which ones?

Go over the list. Where during 2020 has he sponsored any legislation to help his citizens aside from the emergency related to Coronavirus? Instead it seems like he’s got a real problem with sex, China, and making sure that the Untied States government is protected against the citizenry.

  • Colors in RED are all about China. Yeah, he most certainly has a real “hard on” about China.
  • Colors in Blue are all about sexual exploitation of children.
  • Colors in PURPLE are all about making the government immune from protests and legal actions by the citizenry.
  • Colors in GOLD are for dealing with the Coronavirus.
S.5016: A bill to combat forced organ harvesting and trafficking in persons for purposes of the removal of organs, and for other purposes.
S.4998: Child Support Works Act of 2020
S.4978: Israel CENTCOM Reclassification Act
S.RES.794: A resolution urging the European Parliament to exempt certain technologies used to detect child sexual exploitation from European Union ePrivacy directive.
S.4965: Public Servant Protection Act of 2020
S.4843: Chinese Communist Party Influence Transparency Act
S.RES.751: A resolution expressing support for the designation of October 23, 2020, as a national day of remembrance of the tragic terrorist bombing of the United States Marine Corps barracks in Beirut, Lebanon, in 1983.
S.4768: AIM Act
S.4661: A bill to authorize the President to posthumously award the Medal of Honor to Alwyn C. Cashe for acts of valor during Operation Iraqi Freedom.
S.4648: A bill to amend the Controlled Substances Act to list isotonitazene as a schedule I controlled substance.
S.4631: Hong Kong Refugee Protection Act
S.4609: China Trade Relations Act of 2020
S.4553: Support Peaceful Protest Act
S.4551: Rioting Restitution Act
S.4550: No Catch-and-Release for Rioters Act
S.4483: Campus Free Speech Restoration Act
S.4445: Protect Our Prosecutors and Judges Act of 2020
S.4292: Saving American History Act of 2020
S.4130: American Foundries Act of 2020
S.4105: Washington-Grant Historic Preservation Act
S.4056: Restore Integrity of Special Prosecutors Act
S.3968: Better Community Policing Recognition Act
S.RES.613: A resolution calling for justice for George Floyd and opposing calls to defund the police.
S.3920: SECURE CAMPUS Act of 2020
S.3796: No Bailouts for Illegal Aliens Act
S.3662: Holding the Chinese Communist Party Accountable for Infecting Americans Act of 2020
S.3641: A bill to designate the area between the intersections of International Drive, Northwest and Van Ness Street, Northwest and International Drive, Northwest and International Place, Northwest in Washington, District of Columbia, as “Li Wenliang Plaza”, and
S.3661: Danger Pay for U.S. Marshals Act
S.3635: Protecting Our Pharmaceutical Supply Chain from China Act of 2020
S.3600: Li Wenliang Global Public Health Accountability Act of 2020
S.3537: Protecting Our Pharmaceutical Supply Chain from China Act of 2020
S.3522: Coronavirus TANF Expansion Act
S.3524: Coronavirus Credit Expansion Act
S.3523: Coronavirus Unemployment Insurance Expansion Act
S.3521: Coronavirus Economic Stimulus Act
S.3469: NETWORKS Act
S.3386: Protecting America From Foreign Investors Compromised by the Chinese Communist Party Act of 2020
S.3342: Zero Tolerance for Deceptive Fentanyl Trafficking Act
S.3322: Prevention of Deceptive or Child-Targeted Advertising in Violation of the Unlawful Internet Gambling Enforcement Act
S.RES.497: A resolution commemorating the life of Dr. Li Wenliang and calling for transparency and cooperation from the Government of the People’s Republic of China and the Communist Party of China.
S.3153: A bill to prohibit the sharing of United States intelligence with countries that permit the operation of Huawei fifth generation telecommunications technology within their borders.

He’s typical.

Do you really think he cares about people? Do you think that he cares about families? Do you think that he cares about anything other than money and hate?

Well… apparently God disagrees with me…

Evangelical Pastor Claims God Says, 'I'm Not Happy About ...
https://www.newsweek.com/evangelical-pastor-claims...

Nov 05, 2020 · Evangelical Pastor Claims God Says, 'I'm Not Happy About What You're Doing to My Man' Trump in Election. By Jason Lemon On 11/5/20 at 6:49 PM EST. U.S. Evangelicals Evangelical Christians Donald ...

These people… those that take the role in government… end up becoming a tool. They end up turning into something else. Something bad. And they allow terrible things to happen, because “they are just doing their job”...

Flagellation de Notre Seigneur Jesus Christ

The Flagellation of Christ, 1880 is one of Bouguereau's masterpieces, and today hangs at the Baptistery of La Rochelle Cathedral, France. Christ, tied to a column, limply hangs, his feet dragging on the ground and head hung back, he submits to his fate.

-Flagellation de Notre Seigneur Jesus Christ
The Flagellation of Christ
The Flagellation of Christ, 1880 is  one of Bouguereau's masterpieces, and today hangs at the Baptistery of  La Rochelle Cathedral, France. Christ, tied to a column, limply hangs,  his feet dragging on the ground and head hung back, he submits to his  fate. 

Two men stand in mid swing with their whipping ropes, with a third  kneeling to the lower right fastening birch branches for the next stage  of the torture. Unlike the two men who are whipping or the forth man  standing behind with birch branches in the ready, the kneeling man tying  the branches appears to show some remorse for his actions as his hand  muscles loosen slightly with the pull of the string. 

The viewer can feel  the pain of Christ's torment, though his eyes are vacant of expression  as if his soul is in another place. The crowd surrounding this event is  filled with curious spectators. 

To the left, a young boy shelters his  eyes from the horrid sight by turning his back and pressing himself  against his mother. To the right, just above Christ's head, a baby looks  down at him sympathetically while hoisted up on his father's shoulders.  

Through the crowd, a bearded man looks directly at the viewer, thereby  pulling the audience into the scene as if they are too part of the  crowd. It is possible that this bearded man with furrowed brow is a self  portrait, so both Bouguereau and the viewer are witnessing this scene.  

This life size capa d'opera is every bit as magnificent as any religious  works done by Raphael, Caravaggio, or Velasquez. The harmonious  interplay of drawing, paint handling, composition, perspective and  emotional thrust are second to none in their expressive power.

-by Kara Lysandra Ross

Excerpt from the article: William Bouguereau and his Religious Works                         

And you know, the detective in charge of the entire raid and my case had some very piercing things to say about this work of art. And I have never forgotten her words…

“…this preoccupation with torture, young children, and nudes point to a serious mental illness that needs to be eradicated from our treasured citizenry…”

Yeah.

So you want to know what it was like for me being arrested and “investigated” in Arkansas…? Look at who the fuck is running that place, controlling the minds of the people there, and who are accumulating riches beyond compare. Look at them. For they ARE America.

Hard Right Religious Extremism and Law-Making makes for a dangerous situation.
Televangelist Pat Robertson says God told him Trump will ...
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8862797

Oct 21, 2020 · A televangelist has claimed that God told him President Donald Trump will win the upcoming election but that five years later an asteroid will hit …

Yah!

Beware of asteroids you all.

It’s all coo-coo!

When I joined MAJestic, I was instructed that I would be in it for life, but that I was forbidden to have children during my active engagements. I agreed, not realizing what that meant. I was also told that I would be alone, with no support and that I would not ever be rich or famous as that was a danger to the organization.

Maybe I was stupid for taking on this role? But I gave up so very much for this, and then to have myself retired like I was, and then have these jokers prance around in Washington DC like they do really upsets me.

I think that this exposure to what the American government is has taught me quite a bit as to what America has become; what it is, and where it is going. Unlike most Americans who read about this, or who read about that. I’ve experienced it first hand. Up front and viscerally. Don’t get all that caught up on what the media promotes. It’s all lies. Pay attending to the first-hand reports by others who’s veracity you can trust.

Cut out the bullshit.

Coocoo nest 1
Americans mostly resemble the inmates in a mental asylum. And the American leadership is just as messed up and corrupted to a degree that is nearly unfathomable.

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Anyways, art, like music is really meaningful to me. I remember an old black and white movies from the 1940s or 1950s where there is this guy in prison who paints. It’s his only love. It’s his only hobby. Then one day the warden visits him and see that the painter painted the warden. Not good. Not bad. But realistic. But the warden responded by taking away his ability to paint. And thus destroyed his only and sole source of happiness…

This theme was repeated in the movie “One flew over the Cuckoos nest”. Where as soon as one of the inmates showed any inkling or ability to resist the shackles that were around his legs, the powers that be made sure to destroy him beyond repair.

Coocoo nest 2
Americans mostly resemble the inmates in a mental asylum. And the American leadership is just as messed up and corrupted to a degree that is nearly unfathomable.

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Le Repos

In the ADC in Arkansas we were not permitted to have any fruit. None. And one inmate who was in there for a long, long time told me that he missed bananas. He said that he could picture them. He could smell them. He could remember peeling them. But that he hadn’t held or tasted a banana in over twenty years…

… yet when I look at these paintings I see a window to a time that is long gone. A quieter time, a more peaceful time, and a time where you could only commit a crime if there was a victim. There was no such things as a victimless crime, and that the fifth amendment guaranteed that I could confront my accuser in court. Not have that entire fail-safe ignored by a plea bargain.

These paintings and this art carries me away…

I just love these relaxed paintings. Maybe this kind of life will return back to America. What do you think?

Rest.

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This image represents my ideal.

Looking at the boys’ trousers makes me want to buy a new set of oils and brushes. I really want to paint those folds and shaded legs.

La Charité

Another lovely painting.

And yes. Yet another example of how “evil and disgusting” that I am for even suggesting that it is beautiful.

La Charité

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Yes, you know these people “talk with God” personally. And they know what evil is, and that they are the representation of what is good in the world and that which must be destroyed.

Don’t you know.

Look at this great representation of “good”…

“I had a very close talk with Jesus Christ this morning and he told me…”
Trump Will Start the End of the World, Claim Evangelicals ...
https://www.newsweek.com/trump-will-bring-about...

"For his evangelical supporters, there's a sense that Trump's unlikely election to the presidency proves that he has been chosen by God," Young told Newsweek. "He shouldn't have won the election ...

Entre la richesse et l’amour

This is an age-old issue. When a young lass can choose the life before her. While it is shown as extremes in age and wealth, the story persists. How can a woman in her blossoming years decide her future life? the translation of this painting is “Between wealth and Love”. And it speaks volumes. Don’t you think?

Between wealth and love

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My favorite part of this painting is the young lass’s hands. That’s just pure art.

Le Saintes Femmes au Tombeau

Le Saintes Femmes au Tombeau, 1890, translated to The Holy Women at the Tomb, depicts the three Marys, Mary the Mother of James, Mary Magdalene and Mary of Cleophas, at the tomb of the resurrection. The viewer, compositionally, is placed in a prostrated position and looking up first notices the expressions of bewilderment on the central Mary's face before looking past the three women and into the tomb.

-Le Saintes Femmes au Tombeau
Le Saintes Femmes au Tombeau painting.
Le Saintes Femmes au Tombeau

Compassion!

Compassion painting.
Compassion!
Donated by Bouguereau's descendents to the Musée D'Orsay, Paris, France, 2009 

When one looks at The Compassion,  1897, at first glance the viewer may interpret this painting be simply a  depiction of Christ on the Cross, with perhaps another saint, or  victim. 

A depiction not too different from thousands of other paintings  of the subject; but in fact, the subject of this painting is not simply  the event, but the conversion to Christianity through the compassion for  the sacrifice Jesus made. The man with his head on Jesus' chest is a  representation of every man and mankind as a whole. 

The man in the  painting shows the same empathy and bearing his own symbolic cross, has  found his way to Jesus and his own redemption. Many Christians wear  crosses around their necks to represent the same conviction, that they  too have been sacrificed with Christ. 

In the bible, when Jesus fell on  his way to Calvary, a man from the crowd, Simon of Cyrene, went to Jesus  and carried the cross for him, which was the inspiration for this  widely accepted symbol. 

The blood of Christ falls onto his hands,  reiterating the blood sacrifice that was made for his benefit. On top of  the cross a letter is posted which reads "Jesus of Nazareth, King of  the Jews" in three languages, Greek, Latin, and Aramaic. Although in  many depictions, Christ is crucified at the top of a mountain,  Bouguereau chooses to depict the savior on a barren wasteland, symbolic  of the man"s spiritual life before finding his way to Christ. 

Bouguereau  chose to keep this painting, which shows the importance his religion  played in his own life, and it remained in his studio until its recent  donation to the Musèe D'Orsay, Paris, France.

-by Kara Lysandra Ross

Excerpt from the article: William Bouguereau and his Religious Works

Berceuse

The painting, “Berceuse” is a delightful example of Bouguereau’s more domestic works. It shows a mother sitting in a rural landscape rocking her baby’s cradle as she works at spinning thread.

The title of the painting, “Berceuse” suggests that she is also singing a lullaby to her sleeping child at whom her calm, loving gaze is directed. The composition is strongly reminiscent of a Madonna and Child and the painting as a whole is beautifully executed.

Berceuse

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We can see from this painting that Bouguereau was a master of traditional academic painting and why he had wide appeal, in France and abroad, during his lifetime.

His approach to art, was however, heavily criticized by the rising impressionist painters, many of whom found much of their work rejected by the Salon. Instead they embraced more modern types and works of art. And we all know where that ended up…

White Dog
Georges Seurat/white-dog

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After his death his reputation fell steeply and his paintings were no longer admired but were seen as vacuous or overly sentimental. It is only in recent decades that his work has begun to be re-evaluated and his paintings, such as “Berceuse” appreciated once more for the skill, artistry and dedication that Bourguereau brought to his work.

The Proposal

What kind of proposal is it? Marriage?

Hardly.

Some kind of plan being hatched… curious. Very curious.

The motif of a young man at a window, wooing a woman at her spinning wheel, and the vaguely sixteenth-century German costumes and setting, led writers to associate this painting with the tragic story of Faust and Marguerite.

Johann Georg Faust was said to be an alchemist, astrologer, and magician who lived during the Renaissance period in Germany.
 
He was an aging scholar, but at the end of his life, he fell out of  love with his previously devoted scholastic endeavors in the  accumulation of human knowledge. He is said to have made a contract with  the devil, selling his soul to enjoy and partake in reckless earthly  pleasures. The one who lured Faust away from his scholarly endeavors was  said to be Méphistophélès, a malevolent devil.
 
The story of Faust has served as inspiration for numerous literary,  artistic, cinematographic and musical works throughout the ages. Even  the mere term ‘Faust’ has been used to refer to ambitious people who are  willing to exchange moral values for strength and success in certain  fields. 
 
La Damnation de Faust – Tragic destiny
 
‘La Damnation de Faust’ is often interpreted to describe a tragic  destiny resulting from a false wish, a trope that still holds relevance  in contemporary society.
 
In the classic play, Faust is presented as an aging scholar in  desperation. He has spent his whole life in search of wisdom just to  find that at the end of it all, he has gained nothing. Youth, happiness,  and achievement have all slipped away from him. Even the search for  wisdom can no longer inspire him. To set him free from sorrow and  depression, he decides to seek death. 

In a singular moment, the resounding sound of a church bell and hymn remind him of his youth, of the time when he still held faith in religion. But that fleeting moment does not last long before the appearance of Méphistophélès, a malevolent devil, is seen before him. Faust, desperate and depressed almost at the point of suicide, accepts the devil’s offer of returning to him his youth, knowledge, and the fulfillment of all of his deepest desires. In return, he must, however, follow the devil and fall under his command. 

Seemingly, the vague and fleeting religious memory Faust experienced  moments before the appearance of the devil was not enough to revive in  him a strong faith in religion, in a God that he once had.|
 
Naturally, Faust now has all that he was craving, yet, there was no way for him to know where the journey ahead would lead him.
 
After Méphistophélès fulfills his side of the bargain he encourages  Faust to seduce Marguerite, an innocent girl whom Faust had an  unrequited love for, and then abandon her, alone and pregnant. 
Faust and Marguerite in the Garden, by James Tissot (1861). (Wikimedia Commons/Public domain)
Faust and Marguerite in the Garden, by James Tissot (1861). (Wikimedia Commons/Public domain)
Her life falls into ruin and, so, in an effort to save his lover, Faust agrees to relinquish his soul to devil Méphistophélès. With this decision, he gives the devil every reason and ability to drag him to hell. Which he does, tragically and immediately. Perhaps his final destiny was predetermined from the very moment he accepted the offer of the devil Méphistophélès. 

It is a tale that resembles the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden  of Eden. The devil Méphistophélès plays a role not dissimilar to the  role of the serpent that tempted Eve to take a bite of the apple. Once  Adam and Eve succumbed to the serpent to eat the forbidden fruit, it was  determined that they would be expelled from the Garden of Eden.
 
In the case of Faust, he yields to lust and worldly desires and  culminates in hell. It is the inevitable fate for the one that chooses  to go against good and side with evil.
 
The story of Faust: An awakening bell
 
In the contemporary era of the robust development of science and  technology, in most cases, science and knowledge play a positive role in  society, but at times, it can assume a negative role, as well.  Especially when the scholars and scientists ignore moral and humanistic  values, and put their fame and interest on top, they would disregard any  adverse impact that their work might impose on humanity.
 
Don’t we catch the image of Faust in communist philosophers, in  surgeons involved in live organ harvesting from Falun Gong practitioners  and in the development of nuclear warfare, to name a few?
 
No matter what excuse they can make, the undermining effect on human society that they exert is irrefutable.
 
In this aspect, the story of Faust can still prove its relevance to  today’s society and serve as the awakening bell for those who choose to  go down that path.

-La Damnation de Faust

The seduction of the innocent heroine by the wicked Faust was a popular pictorial subject in the nineteenth century, inspired by Goethe’s dramatic poem and its operatic staging by Charles Gounod.

Regardless of the lovers’ identities, the lushly painted, romantic scene would have appealed to Bouguereau’s well-heeled clientele.

Admiration Maternelle – Le Bain

'M. Bouguereau is a true artist, one of the most accomplished in Paris.'

-Edmond About, 1866
Admiration Maternelle - Le Bain
Admiration Maternelle – Le Bain

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Beginning in 1865, Bouguereau became interested in themes of mothers and children and he began a series of paintings devoted to this subject matter. These classically-informed images were greatly influenced by his travels throughout Italy in the 1850s.

Trekking from Naples all the way to Venice over a two year period, Bouguereau was frequently confronted by religious imagery, and he was particularly impressed with the works of Raphael.

Raphael
A painting by Raphael.

These images of mothers and children may have been further reinforced by the birth of the artist’s fourth child in 1868, a son named Adolphe Paul. It was also in this year that the artist moved his family into the house on rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, with its large studio on the top floor of the house.

Admiration maternelle – le bain, most likely painted in the artist’s studio in 1869, depicts a young Roman mother holding her naked baby on her lap. The baby clasps an orange before him, while his older sister looks on adoringly, her hands folded together as if in prayer.

These three figures, clearly a secularized interpretation of a Holy Family or Madonna and Child with St. John, are bathed in a clear warm light which illuminates the freshly washed hair of the baby, creating a halo around his head and enhancing the association with the Christ Child.

The bowl and washcloth occupy the immediate center of the composition, bringing to mind the chalice and cloth of the Liturgy of the Eucharist. The room behind the figural group is softened by the shadows of the recesses of the interior, thereby heightening the importance of the figural group.

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There is a photograph in the Goupil Museum in Bordeaux and in Bouguereau’s own collection of what appears to be this work (Ross and Bartoli, 1869/02) without the linen towel and basin, a different bench and a slightly different background. 

It is possible that the initial purchaser of the painting asked for the changes to be made, as was the case with La Bohémienne, which also had two different backgrounds.

Admiration maternelle was in the collection of George Small of Baltimore by 1879, and remained in the Small family until 1984. George Small was the President of the Ashland Iron Company and a director of the Northern Central Railroad and the Baltimore and Potomac Railroad. He amassed a fortune, but he and his wife had no children, so the painting passed to his brother’s family upon his death in 1891.

Admiration Maternelle

He does capture the moment perfectly. Doesn’t he?

Maternal Admiration

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I love his work. I really do.

Conclusions

The artist was master of his medium and in control of his life in that time, and at that place…

In a corner of the garden measuring some two hundred square feet, he arranged his outdoor studio; and in the orangery he set up his interior studio. At six in the morning, rain or shine, drizzle or wind, escorted by his three dogs and a servant, he sets out for a two-hour walk through the fields or along the seashore. Once home, he has a cup of tea and settles down to work. At eleven, the family gathers for lunch; at one, he resumes work with his model and continues until six in the evening, with a few short breaks.
 
Then the painter picks up his rustic cane and his soft-felt hat and leaves, a cigarette between his lips, like any ordinary bourgeois, for a walk around the harbor, to watch the sun set on the sea.
 
When the town clocks chime seven, he goes back home for dinner; and at ten, it is curfew time. At dawn on Sundays, the master and his wife climb into a carriage to meet a childhood friend, an architect in a neighboring village, for an outing in the countryside or, during hunting season, to take a few pot shots, in his own words, "at hypothetical quails or the occasional rabbit."

When I look at these beautiful art works I still have stirrings of emotions. But that is now tainted with memories of the experiences that I had in Arkansas.

Memories that came into being by the actions of the government there; a government that employed people from both political parties… working in unison for their own self-worth and future fortunes. Greedy fucks. Ignorant of the true realities and consequences of their actions and their activities.

You take something that I enjoyed and you poison it with bad memories. It’s that the very fundamental nature of PTSD?

Memories that were and still are painful.

In fact, I often wonder if this was it’s intended purpose, by a some gleeful evil psychopaths to forever alter my love of art and to convert it and change it into something substantially different.

Into a ugly and foul thing…

Much like the premise in the movie A Clockwork Orange.

A controversial and offensive masterpiece.                                  tyson-hunsaker31 January 2017             
                              
Anyone looking to  watch A Clockwork Orange might be wanting to revisit some of Stanley  Kubrik's work and might be interested in studying this film. Those who  have already seen this film tend to already have strong opinions  regarding this dark sci-fi movie but for me, I approached this film  recently to obtain an opinion for myself and study one of the great  masters of cinema. 

The fact that this film was regarded as one  of the most controversial films ever made (rightfully so) sparked  genuine curiosity to give this flick a full viewing and while I have  large issues with the film, the experience as a whole was both  satisfying and a learning experience. 

This story centers on  "Alex" our main protagonist and his gang of hoodlums set in a not so  distant, dystopian Great Britain. The beginning portion unfolds Alex's  dark and twisted soul as we watch him and his gang fight, rape, and  kill. 

When he's eventually caught, he undergoes controversial  "treatment" to be cured of his dark soul.

I first appreciated the  inmate concepts of this story and the type of questions the story  attempted to raise to the audience. Furthermore, much of the  psychological ideologies surrounding freedom, choice, good vs evil, and  selfishness were extremely thought-provoking. It had a way of making me  feel self-exploratory despite the character's complete inability to  relate with (hopefully) any viewer. 

Performances were top notch;  especially from the lead: Malcom McDowell. His performance felt so  authentic there's never a single moment that feels fake or forced with  his dark character. As always, Stanley Kubrick directs the hell out of  this. His commanding and authoritative shooting style is apparent in  every frame of the picture and he does a wonderful job at sucking the  viewer into this terrible world to the point of enthrallment. 

While  all these positives make for a great movie-going experience and when  Kubrick is at the director's helm not much can go wrong, the film's  biggest downfall is indeed its controversy. Disturbing subject matter in  this piece is indeed vital to the essence of the story but taking off  the gloves when it comes to fighting, rape, and killing (especially the  rape) make this so incredibly disturbing that it's difficult to muscle  through. 

I found that A Clockwork Orange was not only offense because of  its disturbing content, it was personally offensive in so many ways.  Frankly, these extremely rare and offensive movie experiences are not  quite the reason I enjoy films in the first place; stories can still be  thought-provoking while not morally offend and damage the viewer  internally. In addition, a viewer looking to study the work of Stanley  Kubrick can still experience some of cinema's greatest and transcendent  experiences without feeling like their conscience has blackened.

It's  understandable that not everyone feels this way; just as stated before,  opinions about this film are all across the board. As time has passed  however, A Clockwork Orange has stood out has one of Kubrick's finest  and has been adored by die-hard fans so much its fan base has grown over  the years. 

The best advice to give is to see it for yourself.  Much like all other Kubrick films, relying on anyone's opinion won't  help one bit. Seeing it and deciding for yourself is the best course of  action. That being said, despite it's strong artistic merit, I wouldn't  recommend seeing it simply because of the morally offensive and  sickening content that most don't appreciate. Overall, it's been the  hardest one to review in a long time because it's not a simple: see it  or don't see it. There's much more to this picture than that. If you do  decide to see it though, be warned and well prepared. If not, that's  probably just fine too.

There is nothing different from my “reprogramming” by the Arkansas government, and what happened to Alex in the movie “A Clockwork Orange”.

A clockwork orange.

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Perhaps China is correct in preventing their nation any kind of access by these evil, evil people. People who have no compassion. People who cannot see beauty and purpose. People who look good, and say the right things, but are corrupted, and evil to their fundamental core.

Evil people.

In positions of extreme power…

…in a dying military empire.

Are inherently dangerous.

Six of the thirty that have been sanctioned by China in January 2021.

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Back in Rome

All this reminds me of the behaviors of the government of Rome when it was at the height of decay and corruption. Consider their idea for a “half time show” in the Arena…

The enormous arena was empty, save for the seesaws and the dozens of  condemned criminals who sat naked upon them, hands tied behind their  backs. Unfamiliar with the recently invented contraptions known as petaurua,  the men tested the seesaws uneasily. One criminal would push off the  ground and suddenly find himself 15 feet in the air while his partner on  the other side of the seesaw descended swiftly to the ground. How strange. 

In  the stands, tens of thousands of Roman citizens waited with half-bored  curiosity to see what would happen next and whether it would be  interesting enough to keep them in their seats until the next part of  the "big show" began. 

With a flourish, trapdoors in the floor of the arena were opened,  and lions, bears, wild boars and leopards rushed into the arena. The  starved animals bounded toward the terrified criminals, who attempted to  leap away from the beasts' snapping jaws. But as one helpless man flung  himself upward and out of harm's way, his partner on the other side of  the seesaw was sent crashing down into the seething mass of claws, teeth  and fur. 

The crowd of Romans began to laugh at the dark antics before them.  Soon, they were clapping and yelling, placing bets on which criminal  would die first, which one would last longest and which one would  ultimately be chosen by the largest lion, who was still prowling the  outskirts of the arena's pure white sand. [See Photos of the Combat Sports Played in Ancient Rome]

And with that, another "halftime show" of damnatio ad bestias  succeeded in serving its purpose: to keep the jaded Roman population  glued to their seats, to the delight of the event's scheming organizer. 

The Roman Games were the Super Bowl Sundays of their time. They gave their ever-changing sponsors and organizers (known as editors)  an enormously powerful platform to promote their views and philosophies  to the widest spectrum of Romans. All of Rome came to the Games: rich  and poor, men and women, children and the noble elite alike. They were  all eager to witness the unique spectacles each new game promised its  audience.

To the editors, the Games represented power,  money and opportunity. Politicians and aspiring noblemen spent  unthinkable sums on the Games they sponsored in the hopes of swaying  public opinion in their favor, courting votes, and/or disposing of any  person or warring faction they wanted out of the way. 

The more  extreme and fantastic the spectacles, the more popular the Games with  the general public, and the more popular the Games, the more influence  the editor could have. Because the Games could make or break the reputation of their organizers, editors planned every last detail meticulously. 

Thanks to films like "Ben-Hur" and "Gladiator," the two most popular elements of the Roman Games are well known even to this day: the chariot races and the gladiator fights.  Other elements of the Roman Games have also translated into modern  times without much change: theatrical plays put on by costumed actors,  concerts with trained musicians, and parades of much-cared-for exotic  animals from the city's private zoos. 

But much less discussed,  and indeed largely forgotten, is the spectacle that kept the Roman  audiences in their seats through the sweltering midafternoon heat: the  blood-spattered halftime show known as damnatio ad bestias — literally "condemnation by beasts" — orchestrated by men known as the bestiarii.

Super Bowl 242 B.C: How the Games Became So Brutal

The  cultural juggernaut known as the Roman Games began in 242 B.C., when  two sons decided to celebrate their father's life by ordering slaves to  battle each other to the death at his funeral. This new variation of  ancient munera (a tribute to the dead) struck a chord within  the developing republic. Soon, other members of the wealthy classes  began to incorporate this type of slave fighting into their own munera. The practice evolved over time — with new formats, rules, specialized weapons, etc. — until the Roman Games as we now know them were born. 

In  189 B.C., a consul named M. Fulvius Nobilior decided to do something  different. In addition to the gladiator duels that had become common, he  introduced an animal act that would see humans fight both lions and  panthers to the death. Big-game hunting was not a part of Roman culture;  Romans only attacked large animals to protect themselves, their  families or their crops. 

Nobilior realized that the spectacle of animals  fighting humans would add a cheap and unique flourish to this fantastic  new pastime. Nobilior aimed to make an impression, and he succeeded. [Photos: Gladiators of the Roman Empire]
With  the birth of the first "animal program," an uneasy milestone was  achieved in the evolution of the Roman Games: the point at which a human  being faced a snarling pack of starved beasts, and every laughing  spectator in the crowd chanted for the big cats to win, the point at  which the republic's obligation to make a man's death a fair or  honorable one began to be outweighed by the entertainment value of watching him die.

Twenty-two years later, in 167 B.C., Aemlilus Paullus would give Rome its first damnatio ad bestias when  he rounded up army deserters and had them crushed, one by one, under  the heavy feet of elephants. "The act was done publicly," historian  Alison Futrell noted in her book "Blood in the Arena," "a harsh object lesson for those challenging Roman authority."

The  "satisfaction and relief" Romans would feel watching someone considered  lower than themselves be thrown to the beasts would become, as  historian Garrett G. Fagan noted in his book "The Lure of the Arena,"  a "central … facet of the experience [of the Roman Games. … a feeling  of shared empowerment and validation … " In those moments, Rome began  the transition into the self-indulgent decadence that would come to  define all that we associate with the great society's demise.

The Role of Julius Caesar
General Julius  Caesar proved to be the first true maestro of the Games. He understood  how these events could be manipulated to inspire fear, loyalty and  patriotism, and began to stage the Games in new and ingenious ways. For  example, Caesar was the first to arrange fights between recently  captured armies, gaining firsthand knowledge of the fighting techniques  used by these conquered people and providing him with powerful insights  to aid future Roman conquests, all the while demonstrating the  republic's own superiority to the roaring crowd of Romans. After all,  what other city was powerful enough to command foreign armies to fight  each other to the death, solely for their viewing pleasure? 

Caesar  used exotic animals from newly conquered territories to educate Romans  about the empire's expansion. In one of his games, "Animals for Show and Pleasure in Ancient Rome"  author George Jennison notes that Caesar orchestrated "a hunt of four  hundred lions, fights between elephants and infantry … [and] bull  fighting by mounted Thessalians." Later, the first-ever giraffes seen in  Rome arrived — a gift to Caesar himself from a love-struck Cleopatra.

To execute his very specific visions, Caesar relied heavily on the bestiarii —  men who were paid to house, manage, breed, train and sometimes fight  the bizarre menagerie of animals collected for the Games. 

Managing and training this ever-changing influx of beasts was not an easy task for the bestiarii.  Wild animals are born with a natural hesitancy, and without training,  they would usually cower and hide when forced into the arena's center.  For example, it is not a natural instinct for a lion to attack and eat a human being,  let alone to do so in front of a crowd of 100,000 screaming Roman men,  women and children! And yet, in Rome's ever-more-violent culture,  disappointing an editor would spell certain death for the low-ranking bestiarii. 

To avoid being executed themselves, bestiarii  met the challenge. They developed detailed training regimens to ensure  their animals would act as requested, feeding arena-born animals a diet  compromised solely of human flesh, breeding their best animals, and  allowing their weaker and smaller stock to be killed in the arena. Bestiarii  even went so far as to instruct condemned men and women on how to  behave in the ring to guarantee a quick death for themselves — and a  better show. The bestiarii could leave nothing to chance. 

As their reputations grew, bestiarii were given the power to independently devise new and even more audacious spectacles for the ludi meridiani (midday executions). And by the time the Roman Games had grown popular enough to fill 250,000-seat arenas, the work of the bestiarii had become a twisted art form. 

As  the Roman Empire grew, so did the ambition and arrogance of its  leaders. And the more arrogant, egotistic and unhinged the leader in  power, the more spectacular the Games would become. Who better than the bestiarii to aid these despots in taking their version of the Roman Games to new, ever-more grotesque heights? 

Caligula Amplified the Cruelty
Animal spectacles became bigger, more elaborate, and more flamboyantly cruel.
 Damnatio ad bestias became the preferred method of executing criminals and enemies alike. So important where the bestiarii's  contribution, that when butcher meat became prohibitively expensive,  Emperor Caligula ordered that all of Rome's prisoners "be devoured" by  the bestiarii's packs of starving animals. In his masterwork De  Vita Caesarum, Roman historian Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus (b. 69 A.D.)  tells of how Caligula sentenced the men to death "without examining the  charges" to see if death was a fitting punishment, but rather by  "merely taking his place in the middle of a colonnade, he bade them be  led away 'from baldhead to baldhead,'"(It should also be noted that  Caligula used the funds originally earmarked for feeding the animals and  the prisoners to construct temples he was building in his own honor!)

To meet this ever-growing pressure to keep the Roman crowds happy and engaged by bloodshed, bestiarii  were forced to consistently invent new ways to kill.
 They devised  elaborate contraptions and platforms to give prisoners the illusion they  could save themselves — only to have the structures collapse at the  worst possible moments, dropping the condemned into a waiting pack of  starved animals. Prisoners were tied to boxes, lashed to stakes, wheeled  out on dollies and nailed to crosses, and then, prior to the animals'  release, the action was paused so that bets could be made in the crowd  about which of the helpless men would be devoured first. 

Perhaps most popular — as well as the most difficult to pull off — were the re-creations of death scenes from famous myths and legends. A single bestiarius might spend months training an eagle in the art of removing a thrashing man's organs (a la the myth of Prometheus).

The halftime show of damnatio ad bestias  became so notorious that it was common for prisoners to attempt suicide  to avoid facing the horrors they knew awaited them. Roman philosopher  and statesmen Seneca recorded a story of a German prisoner who, rather than be killed in a bestiarius'  show, killed himself by forcing a communally used prison lavatory  sponge down his throat. One prisoner who refused to walk into the arena  was placed on a cart and wheeled in; the prisoner thrust his own head  between the spokes of its wheels, preferring to break his own neck than  to face whatever horrors the bestiarius had planned for him.

It is in this era that Rome saw the rise of its most famous bestiarius, Carpophorus, "The King of the Beasts." 

The Rise of a Beast Master
Carpophorus was  celebrated not only for training the animals that were set upon the  enemies, criminals and Christians of Rome, but also for famously taking  to the center of the arena to battle the most fearsome creatures  himself.

He triumphed in one match that pitted him against a bear,  a lion and a leopard, all of which were released to attack him at once.  Another time, he killed 20 separate animals in one battle, using only  his bare hands as weapons. His power over animals was so unmatched that the poet Martial wrote odes to Carpophorus.

"If  the ages of old, Caesar, in which a barbarous earth brought forth wild  monsters, had produced Carpophorus," he wrote in his best known work,  Epigrams. "Marathon would not have feared her bull, nor leafy Nemea her  lion, nor Arcadians the boar of Maenalus. When he armed his hands, the  Hydra would have met a single death; one stroke of his would have  sufficed for the entire Chimaera. He could yoke the fire-bearing bulls  without the Colchian; he could conquer both the beasts of Pasiphae. If  the ancient tale of the sea monster were recalled, he would release  Hesione and Andromeda single-handed. Let the glory of Hercules'  achievement be numbered: it is more to have subdued twice ten wild  beasts at one time."

To have his work compared so fawningly to  battles with some of Rome’s most notorious mythological beast sheds some  light on the astounding work Carpophorus was doing within the arena,  but he gained fame as well for his animal work behind the scenes.  Perhaps most shockingly, it was said that he was among the few bestiarii  who could command animals to rape human beings, including bulls,  zebras, stallions, wild boars and giraffes, among others. This  crowd-pleasing trick allowed his editors to create ludi meridiani  that could not only combine sex and death but also claim to be honoring  the god Jupiter. After all, in Roman mythology, Jupiter took many  animal forms to have his way with human women. 

Historians still  debate how common of an occurrence public bestiality was at the Roman  Games — and especially whether forced bestiality was used as a form of  execution — but poets and artists of the time wrote and painted about  the spectacle with a shocked awe. 

"Believe that Pasiphae coupled  with the Dictaean bull!" Martial wrote. "We've seen it! The Ancient Myth  has been confirmed! Hoary antiquity, Caesar, should not marvel at  itself: whatever Fame sings of, the arena presents to you."

The 'Gladiator' Commodus
The Roman Games and the work of the bestiarii  may have reached their apex during the reign of Emperor Commodus, which  began in 180 AD. By that time, the relationship between the emperors  and the Senate had disintegrated to a point of near-complete  dysfunction. The wealthy, powerful and spoiled emperors began acting out  in such debauched and deluded ways that even the working class "plebs"  of Rome were unnerved. But even in this heightened environment, Commodus  served as an extreme.

Having little interest in running the  empire, he left most of the day-to-day decisions to a prefect, while  Commodus himself indulged in living a very public life of debauchery.  His harem contained 300 girls and 300 boys (some of whom it was said had  so bewitched the emperor as he passed them on the street that he felt  compelled to order their kidnapping). But if there was one thing that  commanded Commodus' obsession above all else, it was the Roman Games. He  didn't just want to put on the greatest Games in the history of Rome;  he wanted to be the star of them, too. 

Commodus began to fight as a gladiator. Sometimes, he arrived dressed in lion pelts, to evoke Roman hero Hercules; other times, he entered the ring absolutely naked  to fight his opponents. To ensure a victory, Commodus only fought  amputees and wounded soldiers (all of whom were given only flimsy wooden  weapons to defend themselves). In one dramatic case recorded in  Scriptores Historiae Augustae, Commodus ordered that all people missing  their feet be gathered from the Roman streets and be brought to the  arena, where he commanded that they be tethered together in the rough  shape of a human body. Commodus then entered the arena's center ring,  and clubbed the entire group to death, before announcing proudly that he  had killed a giant. 

But being a gladiator wasn't enough for him.  Commodus wanted to rule the halftime show as well, so he set about  creating a spectacle that would feature him as a great bestiarius.  He not only killed numerous animals — including lions, elephants,  ostriches and giraffes, among others, all of which had to be tethered or  injured to ensure the emperor's success — but also killed bestiarii  whom he felt were rivals (including Julius Alexander, a bestiarius who  had grown beloved in Rome for his ability to kill an untethered lion  with a javelin from horseback). Commodus once made all of Rome sit and  watch in the blazing midday sun as he killed 100 bears in a row — and  then made the city pay him 1 millions esterces (ancient Roman coins) for the (unsolicited) favor.

By the time Commodus demanded the city of Rome be renamed Colonia Commodiana ("City of Commodus") — Scriptores Historiae Augustae,  noted that not only did the Senate "pass this resolution, but … at the  same time [gave] Commodus the name Hercules, and [called] him a god" — a  conspiracy was already afoot to kill the mad leader. A motley crew of  assassins — including his court chamberlain, Commodus' favorite  concubine, and "an athlete called Narcissus, who was employed as  Commodus' wrestling partner" — joined forces to kill him and end his  unhinged reign. His death was supposed to restore balance and  rationality to Rome — but it didn't. By then, Rome was broken — bloody,  chaotic and unable to stop its death spiral. 

In an ultimate irony, reformers who stood up to oppose the culture's  violent and debauched disorder were often punished by death at the hands  of the bestiarii, their deaths cheered on by the very same Romans whom they were trying to protect and save from destruction. 

The Death of the Games and the Rise of Christianity
As  the Roman Empire declined, so did the size, scope and brutality of its  Games. However, it seems fitting that one of the most powerful seeds of  the empire's downfall could be found within its ultimate sign of  contempt and power — the halftime show of damnatio ad bestias.
 
Early Christians were among the most popular victims in ludi meridiani.  The emperors who condemned these men, women and children to public  death by beasts did so with the obvious hope that the spectacle would be  so horrifying and humiliating that it would discourage any other Romans  from converting to Christianity.

Little did they realize that the tales of brave Christians facing certain death with grace, power and humility  made them some of the earliest martyr stories. Nor could they have  imagined that these oft-repeated narratives would then serve as  invaluable tools to drive more people toward the Christian faith for  centuries to come. 

In the end, who could have ever imagined that  these near-forgotten "halftime shows" might prove to have a more lasting  impact on the world than the gladiators and chariot races that had  overshadowed the bestiarii for their entire existence?

Read more from Aptowicz in her Expert Voices essay, "Surgery in a Time Before Anesthesia."

The argument about the comparisons between ancient Rome and America today is that the horrific tortures and debauchery just does not occur in America today.

I beg to differ.

I argue that the horrors committed by the national leadership and the techniques of manipulation of the people may have changed form, but they have not been eliminated. Rather, they exist in other ways, other means, and using other technology.

America today

Ah it’s time to return back to a simpler time when people like these would never ever get an opportunity to go anywhere next to the levers of power. A simpler time when people lived life in absolute freedom and never knew fear, 24-7 surveillance, and did not fear their government. A time much as was portrayed in the classical art venues.

And these evil men; these evil people? What got them there to the positions of power and absolute corruption that they currently enjoy?

A corrupt “democratic” process. That is what.

What ever happens in the United States, and no matter what changes will be implemented, any kind of democratic institution of any kind will revert to this exact same game-plan. Nothing will change. The founders of the Untied States were absolutely correct. A democracy turns into a corrupt oligarchy and unless countered, evolves into a dangerous military empire. And the citizens… well… they devolve into frightened sheep, ready for dinner.

Oh, and what happened to my own personal paintings?

You might want to know what happened to all my art that I created, my painting supplies, my painting easel, and my paints. You might want to know what happened to my loves, my dreams and my passions…

While I was incarcerated, my father handled my belongings. He held a yard sale and sold the painting for a $1 each. One man decided to buy them all up. He said that he really liked them, and they was going to use the paintings (all were oil on wood panel) to “wallpaper” his walls with. So …

… I well remember the beaming pride that my father had when he handed me a check for some $350 odd dollars. Not realizing that the materials alone were worth ten times that amount.

…and my other belongings…

The remaining belongings were put on the sidewalk and hauled away as trash. My books were collected and given to a friend to watch over. Who later suddenly dies, and his sister sold all of them in bulk to a used book seller.

He saved one suitcase and some articles of clothing, some things that were truly “WTF did he save this for”, and the screws (?) to my massive king-sized solid hardwood bed, that he simply threw away. (I paid over $3500 for that thick massive bed back in 1998. It was totally and completely awesome!) Everything else was destroyed, lost or sold off for pennies on the dollar.

My cars… he gave them away.

  • My Toyota Celica was driven to the dealership. He handed them the keys. Said I was in prison and didn’t want the car any longer.
  • My Cadillac Deville. was discovered with sliced tires, a engine (and transmission) filled with sugar and totally gummed up and useless. (It was towed away to a junk yard.)
  • My Ford T-Bird was left in the airport. I asked my father to get the car for me. I was in prison and was unable to get it out of the lot. But it was too much of a hassle. So he called the parking lot owner and told them “the situation”. Instead of being understanding they responded with “Sex Offender! Tough shit! That car is mine now!” and classified it as abandoned and started the necessary legal paperwork to claim it as their own.

His response to me was “you can go get new ones when you get out of prison.”

With what, Dad? My good looks and a spit shine? Not even McDonald’s would hire me.

But things do have a way of turning around.

Just today I read an interesting article;

The last four years of non-stop HATE CHINA! propaganda is ending. And those people who drove that narrative and forced the complete “fire hose” of disinformation, lies, distortions and insults are not only being axed and sent out the door, but they are being applauded by the working folk as they leave too. Good riddance…

One VOA journalist said Pack's resignation triggered "sighs of relief and cheers" among employees. She called Pack's resignation "a first step toward a return to normalcy."

Do you want more?

I have more posts in my Art Index here…

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Some selected favorite artworks by Jean-Léon Gérôme

Jean-Léon Gérôme is a favorite painter of mine. in his amazing life, he painted at least 351 artworks. He is considered to be a “French , Orientalist painter, draftsman and sculptor” He is awesome.

You can see all of his artwork at the Art Renewal Center here.

Pollice Verso

When I first saw this painting, I was stunned. You have to see it in it’s entirety. It is a huge canvas with a very impression spectacle.

The Latin phrase pollice verso is used in the context of gladiatorial combat for a hand gesture used by Ancient Roman crowds to pass judgment on a defeated gladiator. In modern popular culture, it is assumed that "thumbs down" was the signal that a defeated gladiator should be condemned to death.

-Thumbs signal - Wikipedia

Consider the 2000 movie, Gladiator, in which Joaquin Phoenix is shown giving a defeated gladiator a thumbs down to signify that he wishes for him to be killed. According to director Ridley Scott, that scene was inspired by a painting from 1872 called “Pollice Verso“.

The painting depicts a victorious gladiator standing over the lifeless body of his opponent while a baying crowd jeers and delivers a tsunami of down-turned thumbs. Scott stated of the painting, “That image spoke to me of the Roman Empire in all its glory and wickedness. I knew right then and there I was hooked.”

That particular painting has been noted by historians as the catalyst for why the concept of pollice verso is so poorly understood today by the masses.

What makes this fact so surprising is that the painter behind the piece, Jean-Léon Gérôme, was a hugely respected historical artist who was internationally renowned for his “archaeologically correct history paintings”. Gérôme has been described as a “learned classicist” and was famous for extensively researching his pieces before putting brush to canvas.

For example, with “Pollice Verso” Gérôme studied actual pieces of armor from the ruins of Pompeii so that the gladiators in his paintings looked authentic. Gérôme’s legendary attention to detail is probably the reason that his interpretation of pollice verso was so widely accepted by academics.

The fights between gladiators in ancient Rome were brutal. It was not like a football game (American or otherwise) where it would be assumed that both sides would go home with just a couple of bruises. Death was a fairly common occurrence at a gladiatorial game, but that doesn’t mean it was inevitable. One gladiator might be lying prone in the blood-absorbing sand of the arena, with the other gladiator holding a sword (or whichever weapon he was assigned) at his throat. Instead of simply plunging in the weapon and consigning his opponent to death, the winning gladiator would look for a signal to tell him what to do.

The Editor Was in Charge of the Gladiator Fight

The winning gladiator would get his signal—not from the crowd as illustrated in the famous 19th century painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824–1904)—but rather from the referee of the game, the editor (or editor muneris), who might also be a senator, emperor or another politico.

He was the one to make the final decisions about the fates of the gladiators in the arena. However, since the games were meant to curry public favor, the editor had to pay attention to the wishes of the audience. Much of the audience attended such brutal events for the single purpose of witnessing the bravery of a gladiator in the face of death.

By the way, gladiators never said "Morituri te salutant" ("Those who are about to die salute you"). That was said once to Emperor Claudius (10 BC–54 CE) on the occasion of a staged naval battle, not gladiatorial combat.

Ways to End a Fight Between Gladiators

Gladiatorial contests were dangerous and potentially fatal, but not as often fatal as Hollywood would have us believe: Gladiators were rented from their training school (ludus) and a good gladiator was expensive to replace, so most battles did not end in death.

There were only two ways that a gladiatorial battle could be ended—either one gladiator won or it was a draw—but it was the editor who had the final say on whether the loser died on the field or went on to fight another day. 

The editor had three established ways to make his decision. 

  1. He might have established rules (lex) in advance of the game. If the fight’s sponsors wanted a fight to the death, they had to be willing to compensate the lanista (trainer)who had rented out the dead gladiator. 
  2. He could accept the surrender of one of the gladiators. After having lost or cast aside his weapons, the losing gladiator would fall to his knees and raise his index finger (ad digitatum).  
  3. He could listen to the audience. When a gladiator went down, cries of Habet, Hoc habet! (He’s had it!), and shouts of Mitte! (Let him go!) or Lugula! (Kill him!) could be heard.

A game that ended in death was known as a sine remissione (without dismissal).  

Thumbs Up, Thumbs Down, Thumbs Sideways

But the editor didn’t necessarily listen to any of them.

In the end it was always the editor who decided whether a gladiator would die that day. Traditionally, the editor would communicate his decision by turning his thumb up, down, or sideways (pollice verso)—although modes changed as did the rules of the gladiatorial arena over the length of the Roman empire. The problem is: the confusion over exactly what thumb direction meant what is one of a longstanding debate among modern classical and philological scholars.

Latin PhraseMeaning
Pollices premere or presso polliceThe “pressed thumb.” The thumb and fingers are squeezed together, meaning “mercy” for a downed gladiator.
Pollex infestusThe “hostile thumb.”  The signaler’s head is inclined to the right shoulder, their arm stretched out from the ear, and their hand extended with the hostile thumb. Scholars suggest the thumb pointed upward, but there is some debate; it meant death to the loser. 
Pollicem vertere or pollicem convertere“To turn the thumb.” The signaler turned his thumb towards his own throat or breast: scholars debate about whether it was pointed up or down, with most picking “up.” Death to the loser. 
Signals from the CrowdThe audience could use the ones traditionally used by the editor, or one of these.
Digitis mediusUp-stretched middle finger “of scorn” for the losing gladiator. 
Mappae Handkerchief or napkin, waved to request mercy.

When a Gladiator Died

Honor was crucial to the gladiatorial games and the audiences expected the loser to be valiant even in death. The honorable way to die was for the losing gladiator to grasp the thigh of the victor who would then hold the loser’s head or helmet and plunge a sword into his neck.

Gladiator matches, like much else in Roman life, were connected with Roman religion.

The gladiator component of Roman games (ludi) appears to have started at the start of the Punic Wars as part of a funeral celebration for an ex-consul. To make sure the loser wasn’t pretending to be dead, an attendant dressed as Mercury, the Roman god who led the newly dead to their afterlife, would touch the apparently-dead gladiator with his hot iron wand. Another attendant, dressed as Charon, another Roman god associated with the Underworld, would hit him with a mallet.

Diogenes

Diogenes of Sinope (c. 404-323 BCE) was a Greek Cynic philosopher best known for holding a lantern (or candle) to the faces of the citizens of Athens claiming he was searching for an honest man.

He was most likely a student of the philosopher Antisthenes (445-365 BCE) and, in the words of Plato (allegedly), was “A Socrates gone mad.”

He was driven into exile from his native city of Sinope for defacing currency (though some sources say it was his father who committed the crime and Diogenes simply followed him into exile).

Diogenes’ Beliefs

Diogenes came to Athens where he met Antisthenes who at first refused him as a student but, eventually, was worn down by his persistence and accepted him. Like Antisthenes, Diogenes believed in self-control, the importance of personal excellence in one’s behavior (in Greek, arete, usually translated as `virtue’), and the rejection of all which was considered unnecessary in life such as personal possessions and social status.

He was so ardent in his beliefs that he lived them very publicly in the market place of Athens.

He took up residence in a large wine cask (some sources claim it was an abandoned bathtub), owned nothing, and seems to have lived off the charity of others. He owned a cup which served also has a bowl for food but threw it away when he saw a boy drinking water from his hands and realized one did not even need a cup to sustain oneself.

Duel After a Masquerade

The Duel After the Masquerade is a painting by the French artist Jean-Léon Gérôme, currently housed in the Musée Condé in Chantilly, France.

Duel: a prearranged combat between two persons, fought with deadly weapons according to an accepted code of procedure, especially to settle a private quarrel.

While dueling may seem barbaric to modern men, it was a ritual that made sense in a society in which the preservation of male honor was absolutely paramount. A man’s honor was the most central aspect of his identity, and thus its reputation had to be kept untarnished by any means necessary. Duels, which were sometimes attended by hundreds of people, were a way for men to publicly prove their courage and manliness. In such a society, the courts could offer a gentleman no real justice; the matter had to be resolved with the shedding of blood.

In the ancient tradition of single combat, each side would send out their “champion” as the representative of their respective armies, and the two men would fight to the death. This contest would sometimes settle the matter, or would serve only as a prelude to the ensuing battle, a sign to which side the gods favored.

“A coward, a man incapable either of defending or of revenging himself, wants one of the most essential parts of the character of a man.” 

-Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations

Dueling began in ancient Europe as “trial by combat,” a form of “justice” in which two disputants battled it out; whoever lost was assumed to be the guilty party. In the Middle Ages, these contests left the judicial sphere and became spectator sports with chivalrous knights squaring off in tournaments for bragging rights and honor.

But dueling really became mainstream when two monarchs got into the act. When the treaty between France and Spain broke down in 1526, Frances I challenged Charles V to a duel. After a lot of back and forth arguing about the arrangements of the duel, their determination to go toe to toe dissipated. But the kings did succeed in making dueling all the rage across Europe. It was especially popular in France; 10,000 Frenchmen are thought to have died during a ten year period under Henry IV. The king issued an edict against the practice, and asked the nobles to submit their grievances to a tribunal of honor for redress instead.

Despite putting on a courageous front, no gentleman relished having to fight a duel and risk both killing and being killed (well, perhaps with the exception of Andrew “I fought at least 14 duels” Jackson). Thus duels were often not intended to be fights to the death, but to first blood. A duel fought with swords might end after one man simply scratched the arm of the other. In pistol duels, it was often the case that a single volley was fired, and assuming both men had survived unscathed, satisfaction was deemed to be achieved through their mutual willingness to risk death. Men sometimes aimed for their opponent’s leg or even deliberately missed, desiring only to satisfy the demands of honor. Only about 20% of duels ended in a fatality.

Duels founded on greater insults to a man’s honor, however, were often designated to go well beyond first blood. Some were carried out under the understanding that satisfaction was not gained until one man was incapacitated, while the gravest insults required a mortal blow.

The Serpent Charmer

I discovered that Bing censored this image from my sight. I guess that they felt that I couldn’t handle it, or that it would affect my notions about snakes and nudity. It’s a lovely example of Orientalist painting technique and thought.

Populating their paintings with snake charmers, veiled women, and courtesans, Orientalist artists created and disseminated fantasy portrayals of the exotic 'East' for European viewers. 

Although earlier examples exist, Orientalism primarily refers to Western (particularly English and French) painting, architecture and decorative arts of the 19th century that utilize scenes, settings, and motifs drawn from a range of countries including Turkey, Egypt, India, China, and Algeria. 

Although some artists strove for realism, many others subsumed the individual cultures and practices of these countries into a generic vision of the Orient and as historian Edward Said notes in his influential book, Orientalism (1978), 

"the Orient was almost a European invention...a place of romance, exotic beings, haunting memories and landscapes, remarkable experiments". 

Falling broadly under Academic Art, the Orientalist movement covered a range of subjects and genres from grand historical and biblical paintings to nudes and domestic interiors.

-The Art Story

This painting should not be confused with his other work with the exact same name;

Here’s some great links of his art style and how they all come together…

  • One of the keys genres of Orientalism was the harem picture. Denied access to actual seraglios, male artists relied on hearsay and imagination to depict opulent interiors and beautiful women, many of whom were Western in appearance. The genre also allowed artists to depict erotic nudes and highly sexual narratives outside of a mythological context as their exotic location distanced the Western viewer sufficiently to make them morally permissible.
  • Orientalism disseminated and reinforced a range of stereotypes associated with Eastern cultures most notably regarding a lack of ‘civilized’ behavior and perceived differences in morality, sexual practices, and character of the inhabitants. This often aligned with propaganda campaigns initiated by Britain and France as colonializing powers and images are best viewed within the context of Europe’s political and economic relationships with Eastern countries.
  • Many Orientalist images are infused with rich colors, particularly oranges, golds and reds (although blue tiles are also prevalent) as well as decorative details and these operated in conjunction with the use of light and shadow to create a sense of dusty heat that Westerners would associate with the prevailing view of the Orient.

Le Combat de Coqs

The Cock Fight

Did you know from whence the English slang for penis came from? Yes, I am talking about a “cock”. Well, listen up…

The following are excerpts from the article “The Cultural Poetics of the Greek Cockfight” by Eric Csapo, in The Australian Archaeological Institute at Athens Bulletin, Vol. 4 (2006/2007) pp. 20-37.

The Cultural Poetics of the Greek Cockfight

In antiquity, the cock, like the sphinx, was a liminal creature. Its habit of crowing at dawn made it a symbol of transition from night to day and darkness to light. As a marker of time and transitions, it is associated with birth, death and rebirth, and thus gains a close association with liminal deities such as Leto, Hermes, Demeter/Persephone and Asclepius. 

Adolescence was also closely connected to death and rebirth: Artemidorus, the dream interpreter, claims that dreams about adolescence signify marriage for the bachelor and death for the aged (1.54). [...]

In myth, the cock is closely connected with the war-god, Ares. Originally the cock was a human companion of Ares named Alectryon, which is simply the Greek word for ‘cock’. 

At first, however, there was nothing martial about Alectryon. Before becoming a cock, Alectryon is said by Lucian to have been ‘an adolescent boy, beloved of Ares, who kept company with the god at drinking parties, caroused with him, and was his companion in lovemaking’.[1] 

His only soldierly duty was to keep watch while Ares made adulterous love to Aphrodite, so as to prevent the rising sun from seeing them and from reporting the affair to Aphrodite’s husband Hephaestus. Alectryon failed to keep his post even in this lightest of all soldierly duties. 

He fell asleep and as a result Hephaestus learned of the affair and set the trap, so memorably described in the Odyssey 8, that led to the public exhibition and humiliation of Ares and Aphrodite caught by invisible bonds in the love embrace. As punishment Ares turned Alectryon into a cock, adding, as penance, an ineluctable impulse to crow at the approach of the sun in eternal compensation for his failure to cry warning on that fateful night. [...]

Cocks served as ready symbols for that supreme agon and most enduring theme of Greek art and poetry: WAR. In Aeschylus the expression ‘hearts of cocks’ stands metaphorically for the spirit of violent confrontation Eum. 861). 

For this reason, cocks are a favourite motif on shield blazons. Programmatic decoration on Attic vase-painting frequently draws similes between fighting cocks and mythological combatants or hoplites (see, e.g., fig. 8).[2] [...]

The cock, as we noted, belongs not only to the realm of Ares, but is also close to Aphrodite. The epigrammatist Meleager took the cock on a grave stele to signal the dead man’s devotion to Aphrodite.[3] 

Aristotle declares that chickens are ‘most given to Aphrodite’ (HA 488b4). Oppian thinks them sex-crazed beyond all known birds.[4] 

This is partly justified by observation: Aristotle notes that chickens are the only animals, besides humans, whose mating habits are not seasonal or limited. Indeed they are less limited than humans. [...]

Given the cock’s association with both sex and masculinity, it is not surprising that it was the preferred love gift given by mature men to beautiful youths (fig. 13).[5] 

In Margaret Visser’s words ‘the cock expressed the sheer maleness of the couple, their virile aggressivity and energy’.[6] [...]

In most parts of the world cockfighting is a sport practised exclusively by adult males, but in Greece the sport was ideally represented as a pastime for adolescent boys, and particularly young aristocrats. 

We have seen that in Greek art the human figures associated with fighting cocks are boys, and mostly adolescent boys. 

Language also encouraged a close identification between the adolescent and the cock. Cocks were, like their owners, ‘aristocrats’; fighting cocks were termed ‘noble’, those unfit for sport ‘ignoble’ or ‘vulgar’.[7] 

The harsh sounds made by an adolescent whose voice is breaking are referred to as crowing, kokkusmos (gallulare in Latin).[8] 

And while words for ‘cock’ and ‘penis’ are homonymous in the vernacular of a great many languages, the Greek equivalent, koko, is only ever used as a ‘pet name’ for the puerile member.[9] The close almost exclusive identification of fighting cocks with élite adolescents is hard to square with a tale about martial valour, an express concern of all Greek males. 

Rather, it reflects the particular configuration of male homosexuality in Classical Greece with its emphasis on pederasty and its predominantly aristocratic milieu.

Pygmalion and Galatea

Pygmalion
Classical Mythology. a sculptor and king of Cyprus who carved an ivory statue of a maiden and fell in love with it. It was brought to life, in response to his prayer, by Aphrodite.

The story of Pygmalion and Galatea is quite known and popular till, well… nowadays.

Pygmalion, a famous sculptor, falls in love with his own creation and wishes to give this creation life. This simple and imaginary concept is actually the basis from a psychological understanding of male behavior and wish. This nice myth is considered as the depiction of the masculine need to rule over a certain woman and to inanimate his ideas into a female living creature.

Galatea
n. Greek Mythology A maiden who was originally a statue carved by Pygmalion and who was brought to life by Aphrodite in answer to the sculptor's pleas.

The strange sculptor

Pygmalion was a sculptor par excellence, a man who gave to every one of his ivory a life-like appearance. His deep devotion to his art spared him no time to admire the beauty of women.

His sculptures were the only beauty he knew.

For reasons known only to him, Pygmalion despised and shunned women, finding solace only in his craft. In fact, he was so condemning to women that he had vowed never to marry.

Falling in love with his own creation

One fine day, Pygmalion carved the statue of a woman of unparalleled beauty. She looked so gentle and divine that he could not take his eyes off the statue. Enchanted with his own creation, he felt waves of joy and desire sweeping over his body and in a moment of inspiration he named the figurine, Galatea, meaning “she who is white like milk”.

He draped over her the finest of cloths and bedecked her with the most dazzling of ornaments, adorned her hair with the prettiest of flowers, gave to her the choicest of gifts and kissed her as a sign of adoration.

Pygmalion was obsessed and madly in love with his creation.

The spell the lifeless woman cast on him was too much to resist and he desired her for his wife. Countless were the nights and days he spent staring upon his creation.

The realization of his dream

In the meantime, the celebration of goddess Aphrodite was fast approaching and preparations were well under way.

On the day of the festival, while making offerings to goddess Aphrodite, Pygmalion prayed with all his heart and soul, beseeching the goddess that she turns his ivory figurine into a real woman.

Touched by his deep veneration, Aphrodite went to the workshop of Pygmalion to see this famous statue by herself. When he looked upon the statue of Galatea, she got amazed by its beauty and liveliness.

Looking better at it, Aphrodite found that Galatea looked like her in beauty and perfection, so, satisfied, she granted Pygmalion his wish.

Upon returning home the master-sculptor went straight to Galatea, full of hope. At first, he noticed a flush on the cheeks of the ivory figurine but slowly it dawned upon him that Aphrodite had heard his pleas.

Unable to restrain himself, he held Galatea in his arms and kept her strongly. What had been cold ivory turned soft and warm and Pygmalion stood back in amazement as his beloved figurine came into life, smiling at him and speaking words of admiration for her creator.

Their love blossomed over the days and before long, wedding vows were exchanged between the two lovers with Aphrodite blessing them with happiness and prosperity.

The happy couple had a son.

His name was Paphos, and he later founded the city of Paphos in Cyprus. Some say that Pygmalion and Galatea also had a daughter, Metharme.

The bottom line is that the couple lived happily ever after.

Black Bashi-Bazouk

Bashi-bazouk, Turkish Başibozuk, (“corrupted head,” or “leaderless”), mercenary soldier belonging to the skirmishing or irregular troops of the Ottoman Empire, notorious for their indiscipline, plundering, and brutality. 

Originally describing the homeless beggars who reached Istanbul from the provinces of the Ottoman Empire, the term bashi-bazouk was later applied to all Muslim subjects who were not members of the armed forces. 

Finally it was applied to units of irregular volunteers (both infantry and cavalry) attached to the army but under independent officers and providing their own weapons and horses. 

These forces became notorious for their lawlessness. 

They appeared at the end of the 18th century and fought in Egypt against Napoleon. 

During the Crimean War the allied generals made fruitless attempts to discipline them. Their excesses during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–78 at last forced the Ottoman government to abandon their use.

-Bashi-bazouk | Ottoman soldier | Britannica

This arresting picture was made after Gérôme returned to Paris from a twelve-week journey to the Near East in early 1868.

He was at the height of his career when he dressed a model in his studio with textiles he had acquired during the expedition.

The artist’s Turkish title for this picture—which translates as “headless”—evokes the unpaid irregular soldiers who fought ferociously for plunder under Ottoman leadership, although it is difficult to imagine this man charging into battle wearing such an exquisite silk tunic.

Gérôme’s virtuosic treatment of textures provides a sumptuous counterpoint to the figure’s dignified bearing.

The Slave Market

Orientalism is, in a nutshell, “the way that the West perceives of — and thereby defines — the East”.

Imagine you are a 13th or 14th century European. The Silk Road has just recently established contact and trade with a distant land; a land so far away and so difficult to reach that it exists only in the imagination of the average European.

Earlier accounts of this land have been passed down by the Greeks from centuries ago, telling of an alien world inhabited by “dog-faced creatures”, or Phasians so yellow it was as if they “suffered from jaundice” (summarized by Gary Okihiro in “When and Where I Enter”).

Centuries after that, Egeria’s 4th century text Peregrinatio ad terram sanctam describes an exotic, fantastic Asia that “served to highlight the positive, the real, the substantial Europe”.

These tales are not just stories; for the West, they become synonymous with “what Asia is”.

In recounting Marco Polo’s travels, one historian wrote…

“[Polo’s] picture of the East is the picture which we all make in our minds when we repeat to ourselves those two strange words ‘the East’ and give ourselves up to the image which that symbol evokes”.

Thus, almost from the moment of first contact, the West established a unique and specific relationship with the East — one that still impacts and influences our conceptions of these regions today.

In this relationship (as defined by Edward Said), the West is the “Occident”: the norm, the standard, the center, the fixed point around which the rest of the world orbits.

The East is, by contrast, the “Orient”: the abnormal, the exotic, the foreign, the Other defined specifically by its deviancy from the Occidental, Western norm.

Importantly, this relationship — what Said terms “Orientalism” — draws upon exaggerations of both Occidental and Oriental traits in order to create an Orientalist fantasy that is a fictional recapitulation of both East and West.

Western men are re-imagined as universally Godly, good, moral, virile, and powerful — but ultimately innately human.

By contrast, those traits that best serve as a counter-point to the Occidental West are emphasized in the West’s imagined construct of the East: strange religions and martial arts, bright colors and barbaric practices, unusual foods and incomprehensible languages, mysticism and magic, ninjas and kung fu.

Asia becomes innately unusual, alien, and beastly.

In Orientalism, Asia is not defined by what Asia is; rather, Asia becomes an “Otherized” fiction of everything the West is not, and one that primarily serves to reinforce the West’s own moral conception of itself.

It is also important to note that Orientalism historically arose both from an attempt to “honor” Eastern cultures as well as to redefine them for the West.

Orientalism purports to be a faithful recreation of Eastern traditions and peoples, but actually draws upon real practices and traditions to create an Eastern construct that is largely exaggeration and myth.

Which leads us to this display of slaves in front of a store…

Ave Caesar, Morituri te Salutant

Hail Caesar, We Who Are About to Die Salute You!

This is another painting that depicted the gladiatorial battles and events of ancient Rome. I have read that this saying “we who are about to die salute you” was not all that common, and perhaps only occurred once. But who really knows? Eh?

It’s a nice painting, done in magnificent style.

Le Barde Noir

The Black Bard

Usually artists that paint Caucasian peoples have a difficult time painting other races. Not so in this painting. The colors and the skin tones are all right on and correct. This is a lovely painting and would be particularly impressive over a fireplace in a Victorian home.

Le Tigre et le Gardien

The Tiger and the Guardian

Another fine work. I love how hot it appears outside and how cool the inside of the building appears.

Harem Women Feeding Pigeons in a Courtyard

A fine example of his work. No explanation is required.

The Negro Master of the Hounds

This is a nicely done painting, with great “atmosphere” and a particularly excellent rendering of the dogs. Most figurative painters have spent decades working on their technique and skills with the human body. As a result, when they paint animals, the skill level is often incomplete. While horse and dogs are sometimes rendered perfectly, for the most part, cats and other creatures tend to suffer artistically.

No so in this painting.

Napoleon and His General Staff

In ordering an expedition to Egypt and creating an Army of the Orient in April 1798, under the command of the young General Bonaparte, France’s post-revolutionary Directory sought to do two things.

  • The first was to block Britain’s trade route to India and re-establish commerce with the Levant.
  • The second unstated objective was to remove the ambitious young Bonaparte, whose popularity following his success in the Italian Campaign of the previous year rendered him a threat in current volatile politics.

General Bonaparte famously addressed his troops on their arrival in Egypt with the words …

From the heights of the Pyramids, forty centuries look down on us”.

The reality of France’s Egyptian Campaign was less grandiose, and descriptions by surviving French Officers of Napoleon’s decision to trek his 37,000 troops across the desert rather than follow the Nile River from Alexandria, tell of appalling mismanagement, of thirst, discomfort, disease and death.

Nevertheless it was in the Battle of the Pyramids (more accurately the Battle of Embabeh in the Gaza plain where the battle actually took place) that Napoleon famously routed the Mameluke cavalry by putting into practice his innovative use of the massive so-called ‘divisional square’, a tactic first deployed in Antiquity.

The Mamelukes had effectively ruled Egypt since the thirteenth century and were legendary, apparently invincible, and fearless warriors. Their defeat at the hands of General Bonaparte further enhanced his reputation. 

The Battle of the Pyramids, between French troops led by Bonaparte and 21,000 Egyptian Mameluke soldiers was a resounding victory for the French.

In contrast, the French naval fleet, stationed in the Bay of Aboukir, was attacked by the newly arrived British fleet, under the command of Horatio Nelson, and was roundly defeated.

Following this naval defeat, Bonaparte’s Egyptian campaign remained land-based.

Having installed himself as master of Egypt by force, Bonaparte then set about installing in Egypt what he viewed as the benefits of western civilization. He established the Institut d’Egypte for French scholars, a library, a chemistry laboratory, a health service, a botanical garden, an observatory, an antiquities museum and a zoo.

Diane et Acteon

According to a Greek myth, Actaeon, the son of Aristaeus and Autonoe, surprises Diana, the Greek Artemis, while she was bathing with her nymphs. As a punishment she turned him into a stag and, no longer recognized by his pack of 50 hounds, she was torn to pieces by them.

Greek myths were not very accepting of voyeurism, I guess.

What I find interesting is that the myth takes place in ancient Greece, and that the women are bathing in the pool together, while suddenly a troop belonging to an English Fox Hunt comes barrelling in from the top of a Hill. This juxtaposition of different times and cultures is curious to say the least.

In Victorian painting, and Orientalism, the use of Greek and Roman histories and myths to elaborate upon “modern” life was all the rage. And, as I might add, helps sell the works to a hungry audience.

Harem Pool

Orientalism had a great deal of interesting subject matter to paint. Slaves, mercenaries, hot deserts, magnificent ruins, blue skies, steamy hot sands, and harems. Here is one such painting that depicts a harem and a bath pool.

I love so many things about this particular painting.

  • Look at the detail on the carpet!
  • Study the artwork of the blue tiles.
  • The drapery and clothing of the woman in blue.
  • The two nudes in the forefront.
  • The folds of the towel of the woman up front and how her hand lightly touches her leg.

Slave Auction

A slave being auctioned off in Rome.

This painting, and the next one after it are different views of the same scene. The auctioneer and the maiden being sold are in both paintings, but the view of each are different. The only thing that is different is the building in the background. The first is a brick circular structure with a corbelled ceiling, the second is a traditional Roman pillared motif.

Roman Slave Market

Slave markets were a big thing with Orientalism. Most non-artists would argue that this is because all Victorian men and artists were demented sexual perverts that beheld secret fantasies. This is really nonsensical. There are really three reasons why this was a great subject for Victorian Orientalism paintings.

  • You were able to paint a female body on display in all it’s nuanced form.
  • The subject matter makes for a great story, and has significant history behind it.
  • Paintings that depicted slavery in any form were a prized commodity and sold quickly.

Here we have a picture of slave being sold to the highest bidder in Rome…

King Candaules

Imagine you are the queen of Lydia.

It is late and you are about to disrobe before your king in the privacy of his royal bedchamber. The monarch is reposing on a sumptuous bed that is perfumed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon.

His eyes keep fixated on you as you move toward a chair situated near the doorway of the room. You stand motionless for a time, as is your custom, soaking in your exquisite surroundings through the flickering candlelight.

He clutches giddily at a plush cushion with trembling hands.

It is time.

You pull the ivory pin fastening your hair, shake out your dark-brown curls, and proceed to slip out from your finely embroidered robe and place it on the chair.

In captivating fashion you let drop your undergarments one after another around you. There you stand before your adoring husband with your youthful form revealed in all its beauty.

But just then, all of a sudden, a strange sense of being watched creeps over you.

You cast a furtive glance toward the doorway, instantly recognizing the voyeur peering back at you from the shadows. The interloper gasps. A panicky utterance from the king cannot mask the ensuing patter of feet followed by an awful clatter down the stairs.

As a succession of muted groans reverberate into the night, you are faced with the infuriating realization that the king was behind the entire plot.

In the awkward silence that follows you [1] confront the king, [2] cover yourself and scream for the royal guards, or [3] say it was probably just the cat and handle it in the morning.

If your name is Queen Nyssia, the voyeur is Gyges, and Candaules is king, then you will choose option [3] and handle it in the morning.

This at any rate is the story as it is related by Herodotus. That is apart from Gyges toppling headlong down the royal staircase, which is an elaboration on the series of events of my own invention.

Herodotus, in any case, writes in some detail on Candaules’ efforts to persuade Gyges to view his wife:

This Candaules, then, fell in love with his own wife, so much so that he believed her to be by far the most beautiful woman in the world; 

...and believing this, he praised her beauty beyond measure to Gyges son of Dascylus, who was his favorite among his bodyguard; 

...for it was to Gyges that he entrusted all his most important secrets. 

After a little while, Candaules, doomed to misfortune, spoke to Gyges thus: 

“Gyges, I do not think that you believe what I say about the beauty of my wife; men trust their ears less than their eyes: so you must see her naked.”

Gyges made every attempt to turn down Candaules’ request, but in the end the king’s will prevailed, and he consented to the proposal.

Nyssia, having surmised all of this, sent for Gyges at dawn the next morning and presented him with a choice:

  • Either commit suicide at once as retribution for his transgression.
  • Murder Candaules and usurp the throne with her as his wife.

Gyges pleaded with Nyssia to reconsider, but he soon found this to be a hopeless cause, and reluctantly agreed to kill his master. They murdered Candaules in his bed on the very next night.

After being named king, Gyges legitimised his hold on power, which was still precarious, by securing a favourable declaration from a Delphic oracle.

The wife of Candaules discovers the hidden Gyges by Dutch painter Eglon Hendrik van der Neer around 1675–80.
The wife of Candaules discovers the hidden Gyges by Dutch painter Eglon Hendrik van der Neer around 1675–80.

The oracle coupled a confirmation of Gyges’ right to rule over the Lydians with a prophesy that Candaules’ family – the Heraclids – would take revenge on the usurper in the fifth generation.

The prophecy proved true, but by that time Gyges was dead.

In recognition of the oracular endorsement, Gyges had a hoard of gold and silver sent to the shrine at Delphi.

The delivery included, we are told, six golden mixing-bowls that weighed nearly 800kg when taken all together.

Gyges reigned for a total of 38 years (from 716 BC to 678 BC according to tradition) and was succeeded by his son Ardys II. No further details on the life of Nyssia are recorded.

This is the Herodotean narrative of Gyges’ rise to power.

Modern scholarly opinion has Herodotus drawing on dramatic rather than historical sources, and it has been speculated that his story is based on a tragedy in five acts with three actors and a chorus.

Heads of the Rebel Beys at the Mosque of El Hasanein, Cairo

Bey, Turkish Bey, Old Turkish Beg, Arabic Bay, or Bey, title among Turkish peoples traditionally given to rulers of small tribal groups, to members of ruling families, and to important officials. 

Under the Ottoman Empire a bey was the governor of a province, distinguished by his own flag (sancak, liwa). 

In Tunis after 1705 the title become hereditary for the country’s sovereign. Later “bey” became a general title of respect in Turkish and Arab countries, added after a personal name and equivalent to “esquire” (or “sir” in conversation) in English. In the 20th-century Turkish republic, bey, though surviving in polite conversation, was replaced by bay before the name (equivalent to “Mr.”).

-Bey | Turkish title | Britannica

I would imagine that this is the display of the chopped off heads of rebels in Egypt. Little else is known about this work. Certainly one can let their imagination run wild and contemplate a group of rebels that want to wrest control of the government from the egyptian leadership..

And that is one of the beautiful things about Orientalism. You look at the beautiful images of far-away and distant lands and contemplate what the story might be behind those images…

Slave Market

Then as today, much of the Arab world engages in slave trading. Here we see an image that was sure to shock the Victorian sensibilities of Europe. Shocking; where a Caucasian woman is displayed as a slave for purchase.

Recently I found myself at the Clark Art Institute in Massachusetts, standing in front of an orientalist image. Together with a colleague I was looking at The Slave Market by Jean-Léon Gérôme, painted in 1866, only one year after the official abolition of slavery in the US. The caption of the painting said the following:

A young woman has been stripped by a slave trader and presented to a group of fully clothed men for examination. A prospective buyer probes her teeth. This disturbing scene is set in a courtyard market intended to suggest the Near East. The vague, distant location allowed nineteenth-century French viewers to censure the practice of slavery, which was outlawed in Europe, while enjoying a look at the female body.

My colleague repeated the words in a whisper: indeed, highly disturbing. I couldn’t respond, unsure whether I was really disturbed by the painting or rather by the official institutional rendering of my emotions. I had no courage to stand there longer and dwell on the scenery of the slave market, because the atmosphere created by the museum’s visitors seemed to force me away from what was supposed to be disturbing.

-e-flux

Un Bain Maure ­ Femme Turque au Bain, No.2

A Moorish Bath – Turkish Woman Bathing, No.2

I love this painting. It’s got mood, and “environment”. You can imagine a steamy bath with dim shadows, and piercing rays of incredibly bright sunlight piercing through the gloom.

Qui que tu sois, voici ton maitre

Whoever you are, here is your master

It looks to me that cupid has control over all animals of the world. I see lions, tigers and other cats… perhaps an panther. But nothing else. I wonder if this is a statement about love, or a statement about cats… It’s hard to tell which.

The Terrace of the Seraglio

I like to believe that Gerome was unaware of adding romanticism in his works. However, the classical rigorously composition, strong oriental flavor and exotic atmosphere made people feel his romantic trend.

In 1856 Gerome went to Egypt and the Near East and developed his keen interest in the oriental culture. Therefore he painted many works depicting the local customs of Egyptian and Near Eastern societies. After the exhibition at the Paris salon, his works created a great sensation.

In 1868, he followed the geologists through the Sinai desert and arrived in port Alexander in Cairo. Regardless of this very dangerous journey, the oriental culture gave the painter a very deep impression. The Arabia market, Turkey bathroom and bath of maids, Islamic religious ceremonies, and the chambers with the mysterious colors seemed to be mysterious, interesting, beautiful and amazing.

The Terrace of the Seraglio made by Gerome depicted the most secret imperial life of the Arabia palace. And this painting also portrayed the lives of the princesses and the maids.

Some were in the bath, some were chatting, and some were meditating…almost all showed a melancholy and vacant look.

The beautiful terrace was as cold as a cell suffering the oppression. Only the outside gazebo had the clear sky and the fresh air. Both the composition and color processing were left with the classical principle of preciseness, harmonious contrast and attention to detail, characters, clothing and building which were especially important to the performance of the texture and the exotic sense.

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Some selected favorite artworks by John William Waterhouse

John William Waterhouse was an amazing artist that produced at least 180 artworks during his career. He is considered to be a “English , Victorian Romanticist painter and draftsman”. He was born in 1849 and Died on 2/10/1917.

You can see his entire collection on the Art Renewal Center here.

Like my post on Lawrence Alma-Tadema, you might want to consider this post to be an excurion into Greek mythology and Roman history through the artwork of renessance painters in Europe.

The Lady of Shalott

I have often admired this painting but really had little understanding about what was so appealing about it. To me, it was a sad woman in boat, alone and drifting off into the mists.

This painting depicted an event or circumstance that was described in a poem.

"The Lady of Shalott" is a lyrical ballad by the English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892). It tells the story of a young noble woman imprisoned in a tower on an island near Camelot.

-The Lady of Shalott - Wikipedia

This poem depicted a sad and forlorn woman who was locked up and who had little freedom. That lack of freeom and the imprisonment was not obvious to anyone but herself.

During the period of the 19th century in which “The Lady of Shalott” poem was written, women were not treated in the same way that they are today. History tells us the story of how women came to be “equal” to men, yet when reading this poem, we see that this was not the case for the Lady of Shalott.

The women during this period were seen more as a possession rather than a person or a partner to a male. They were kept in the house and were sometimes not allowed to go outside and socialize. We see this neglect of women demonstrated many times throughout Tennyson’s poem.

Kept as a sort of prisoner in a building, or castle, on the secluded island of Shalott, the Lady of Shalott is described as a “fairy” woman who has been cursed.

For me, I could see this situation. Not only for the woman, in that time and plce, but for anyone who is trapped in a situation that they cannot get out of easily…

Links…

Consulting the Oracle

An oracle is a priest or priestess acting as a medium through whom advice or prophecy was sought from the gods in classical antiquity.

-Dictionary.com

There were many other oracles in Greece, but the Oracle at Delphi was the most famous, and everyone who could afford to consult the Oracle at Delphi preferred to do so.

Of course, there was a long waiting period to consult the oracle (sometimes several months), and there were a number of expensive, preliminary sacrifices. Most of the people who consulted the Oracle at Delphi were wealthy individuals or even heads of state.

The long path leading up the mountain to Apollo’s temple, called the Sacred Way, was lined with treasure houses. These treasuries were filled with costly gifts that leaders and cities had given to Apollo. Some of these treasuries are still standing, and a very few of those precious gifts can still be seen in the museum at Delphi.

When someone came to ask a question of the Oracle, he would need to make a preliminary sacrifice of a goat, and then purify himself in the nearby Castilian Spring.

Then he would approach the adyton of Apollo’s temple.

The adyton is a room inside the temple that was off limits; no one could go in. It is unclear whether those who were consulting the oracle were allowed to go inside the adyton, or whether they had to remain outside.

The Pythia is usually conceived of as sitting on a tripod when she gave her prophecies.

A tripod (as its name implies) was a three-footed stand, usually made of metal. Tripods had a round, metal band around the top, and they were usually used to hold a cauldron over the fire for cooking. But in this case, the Pythia would sit on it, almost like she was sitting on a three-legged stool, to give her prophecies.

In the painting we see this tripod in use at the center of the room, but the oracle is not sitting on it.

The Oracle by Camillo Miola (1880) in the Getty Museum
The Oracle by Camillo Miola (1880) in the Getty Museum

After the person consulting the Oracle asked his question, the Pythia would go into a trance; it was believed that Apollo himself possessed her.

She would speak and a priest (or several priests) who were standing near-by would take down what she said and translate her words into a poem written in hexameters.

It is usually assumed that the Pythia’s original words were coherent, but not very clear. Of course, there is no way to know for sure what her words were really like, but perhaps we can get a good idea from Cassandra’s prophecies in Aeschylus’ play, the Agamemnon.

In that play, Cassandra gives several prophecies that make sense to the audience (because we know what is going to happen), but are so fragmented and confusing that the other characters in the drama do not understand them.

Once the Pythia’s words were translated into hexameter poetry, the poem was written down and given to the person who sought the advice; it was always the responsibility of the recipient to interpret the oracle correctly.

And the oracles, even in their final form, were always ambiguous. Frequently (though not always), the recipients did not interpret them correctly, and they suffered as a result.

Saint Cecilia

This is a true story that actually happened. As a result, the woman in the story became a Catholic Saint. As such, the story of St. Cecilia is not without beauty or merit. She is said to have been quite close to God and prayed often:

In the city of Rome there was a virgin named Cecilia, who came from an extremely rich family and was given in marriage to a youth named Valerian. She wore sackcloth next to her skin, fasted, and invoked the saints, angels, and virgins, beseeching them to guard her virginity

During her wedding ceremony she was said to have sung in her heart to God and before the consummation of her nuptials, she told her husband she had taken a vow of virginity and had an angel protecting her. Valerian asked to see the angel as proof, and Cecilia told him he would have eyes to see once he traveled to the third milestone on the Via Appia (Appian Way) and was baptized by Pope Urbanus.

Following his baptism, Valerian returned to his wife and found an angel at her side. The angel then crowned Cecilia with a chaplet of rose and lily and when Valerian’s brother, Tibertius, heard of the angel and his brother’s baptism, he also was baptized and together the brothers dedicated their lives to burying the saints who were murdered each day by the prefect of the city, Turcius Almachius.

Both brothers were eventually arrested and brought before the prefect where they were executed after they refused to offer a sacrifice to the gods.

As her husband and brother-in-law buried the dead, St. Cecilia spent her time preaching and in her lifetime was able to convert over four hundred people, most of whom were baptized by Pope Urban.

Cecilia was later arrested and condemned to be suffocated in the baths. She was shut in for one night and one day, as fires were heaped up and stoked to a terrifying heat – but Cecilia did not even sweat.

When Almachius heard this, he sent an executioner to cut off her head in the baths.

The executioner struck her three times but was unable to decapitate her so he left her bleeding and she lived for three days. Crowds came to her and collected her blood while she preached to them or prayed. On the third day she died and was buried by Pope Urban and his deacons.

St. Cecilia is regarded as the patroness of music, because she heard heavenly music in her heart when she was married, and is represented in art with an organ or organ-pipes in her hand.

Officials exhumed her body in 1599 and found her to be incorrupt, the first of all incurrupt saints. She was draped in a silk veil and wore a gold embroidered dress. Officials only looked through the veil in an act of holy reverence and made no further examinations. They also reported a “mysterious and delightful flower-like odor which proceeded from the coffin.”

The church viewed this as a measure of sanctity, and incorruptibles -- people whose bodies mysteriously thwart decay -- were canonized into the tenets of Catholic mysticism. Incorruptibility became a component of beatification -- the process of becoming sainted.

-How can a corpse be incorruptible? 

St. Cecilia’s remains were transferred to Cecilia’s titular church in Trastevere and placed under the high altar.

The Favourites of the Emperor Honorious

Flavius Honorius was born in the east in 384, the younger son of the emperor Theodosius I (379-395) and Aelia Flavia Flaccilla. In his youth he was named Most Noble Child (nobilissimus puer), and in 386 he held the consulate. He was summoned by his father to Rome when he was five, but in 391 he returned with him to Constantinople, where in 393 he was proclaimed emperor of Rome.

After the Visigothic invasion of Italy in 402, Honorius and the imperial court retired from Milan to the inaccessible and heavily defended city of Ravenna.

Only rarely did later emperors reside for any length of time elsewhere.

Meanwhile, palace intrigues resulted in Stilicho’s assassination in 408, and Honorius was left to deal with barbarians Alaric and the Visigoths.

The indecisive emperor, influenced first by one adviser and then by another, vacillated between resistance and conciliation. The end result was the sack of Rome in 410.

Here we see a painting of the emperior playing idily with pigeons while Rome collapses all around him.

As for the feckless and timid Honorius, he generally took little part in public affairs. He was generally passive in nature, except when he was motivated to act by fear. He left military operations to his generals, but he did become involved in a controversy over the choice of a bishop of Rome in 418. 

He eventually died of "dropsy" -- perhaps edema of the lungs -- in 423. 

He left no issue, which resulted in the proclamation of Johannes, the Chief Secretary, after his death. Not until 425 did his nephew Valentinian III, the son of Galla Placidia and Constantius, restore the legitimate dynasty. 

Even though the unity of the western empire was shakily maintained during Honorius' reign -- only Britain was lost for good (Honorius wrote to the Britons advising them to defend themselves) -- he left a legacy of fragmentation and feeble, lackluster leadership which eventually would result in the dissolution of the western empire.

-Roman Emperors - DIR Honorius

Flora and the Zephyrs

A nymph called Chloris was kissed by the West Wind, Zephyrus, and was turned into Flora. This story is the subject of Sandro Botticelli’s Primavera.

Flora, in Roman religion, the goddess of the flowering of plants. 

Titus Tatius (according to tradition, the Sabine king who ruled with Romulus) is said to have introduced her cult to Rome; her temple stood near the Circus Maximus. 

Her festival, called the Floralia, was instituted in 238 BC. A representation of Flora’s head, distinguished only by a floral crown, appeared on coins of the republic. 

Her name survives in the botanical term for vegetation of a particular environment.

-Britanna

Zephyrus or Zephyros (Gr: Ζεφυρος) is the god of the west wind and spring. He is the gentlest of the winds. He lived in a cave in Thrace.

Zephyr was the son of Astraeus and Eos, the goddess of the dawn and he was the father of the spring flowers. His mate was Podarge and together they created the two immortal horses of Achilles, Xanthus and Balius

For centuries, poets have eulogized Zephyrus, the Greek god of the west wind, and his "swete breeth" (in the words of Geoffrey Chaucer). Zephyrus, the personified west wind, eventually evolved into zephyr, a word for a breeze that is westerly or gentle, or both. Breezy zephyr may have blown into English with the help of William Shakespeare, who used the word in his 1611 play Cymbeline: "Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon'st / In these two princely boys! They are as gentle / As zephyrs blowing below the violet." Today, zephyr is also the sobriquet of a lightweight fabric and the clothing that is made from it.

-Dictionary

The painting by Waterhouse depicts Zephyrus kidnapping Chloris…

From whence he “kissed” her and turned her into a Flora.

Oh, those lustful Gods.

The Awakening of Adonis

Adonis was the mortal lover of the goddess Aphrodite in Greek mythology. 

In Ovid's first-century AD telling of the myth, he was conceived after Aphrodite cursed his mother Myrrha to lust after her own father, King Cinyras of Cyprus. 

Myrrha had sex with her father in complete darkness for nine nights, but he discovered her identity and chased her with a sword. 

The gods transformed her into a myrrh tree and, in the form of a tree, she gave birth to Adonis. 

Aphrodite found the infant and gave him to be raised by Persephone, the queen of the Underworld. 

Adonis grew into an astonishingly handsome young man, causing Aphrodite and Persephone to feud over him, with Zeus eventually decreeing that Adonis would spend one third of the year in the Underworld with Persephone, one third of the year with Aphrodite, and the final third of the year with whomever he chose. 

Adonis chose to spend his final third of the year with Aphrodite.

-Wikipedia

Those were lustful times back then.

Waterhouse’s great mythological subject The Awakening of Adonis (Collection of Lord Lloyd-Webber) was painted in 1899.

However, it was not finished in time to send to the Royal Academy that year, and was therefore held over to the summer exhibition of 1900. 

On that occasion it was recognised as one of the artist’s most powerful and characteristic works and one that aimed, in the words of one reviewer, ‘at representing the passionate emotions of an historic tragedy in a highly dramatic fashion’ (Athenaeum, 1900, p.568).  

The Awakening of Adonis takes its subject from the ancient fable, retold by Apollodorus, Hyginus and Ovid, which tells how Adonis was the child of Myrrha and her father Theias, the king of Syria. The goddess Venus had encouraged this incestuous union and, when Adonis was born from the trunk of the myrrh tree into which his mother had been transformed, it was she who took care of him, entrusting him to Persephone, goddess of the Underworld. 

The child grew up to be so beautiful that Persephone found that she could not bear to return him to Venus, leading to a dispute between the two. 

This was settled by Zeus, who decided that Adonis should spend four months of the year with Venus and another four with Persephone. 

The remaining third of the year he might spend with whichever of the two goddesses he preferred. 

Venus used the power of magic to cause him to want her rather than Persephone. 

In Waterhouse’ painting the beautiful boy is awakened with a kiss from Venus in her Elysian pleasure-garden. 

Cupid, the god of love, blows on a torch to rekindle a flame, and is accompanied by a band of putto holding flowers. White doves take to the air and the garden is fecund with roses (symbols of Venus) and anemone flowers that were said to grow from the blood of the dying Adonis. 

The mythological legend of Adonis, as represented in the present painting, is therefore symbolic of the renewal of life, vigour, and desire at the arrival of spring. 

– From Sotheby’s catalogue.

A Naiad

In Greek mythology, the Naiads are a type of female spirit, or nymph, presiding over fountains, wells, springs, streams, brooks and other bodies of fresh water.

-Wikipedia

Naiad, (from Greek naiein, “to flow”), in Greek mythology, one of the nymphs of flowing water—springs, rivers, fountains, lakes.

The Naiads, appropriately in their relation to freshwater, were represented as beautiful, lighthearted, and beneficent.

Like the other classes of nymphs, they were extremely long-lived, although not immortal.

...in Greek mythology, naiads supposedly drowned the young men with whom they became enamored.

-Naiad | Definition of Naiad by Merriam-Webster

Variations…

  • Nymph. Nymph, in Greek mythology, any of a large class of inferior female divinities. The nymphs were usually associated with fertile, growing things, such as trees, or with water. They were not immortal but were extremely long-lived and were on the whole kindly disposed toward men. They were distinguished according to the sphere of nature with which they were connected.
  • The Oceanids, were sea nymphs.
  • The Nereids inhabited both saltwater and freshwater; the Naiads presided over springs, rivers, and lakes.
  • The Oreads (oros, “mountain”) were nymphs of mountains and grottoes.
  • The Napaeae (nape, “dell”) and the Alseids (alsos, “grove”) were nymphs of glens and groves.
  • The Dryads or Hamadryads presided over forests and trees.
  • Myth. Myth, a symbolic narrative, usually of unknown origin and at least partly traditional, that ostensibly relates actual events and that is especially associated with religious belief. It is distinguished from symbolic behaviour (cult, ritual) and symbolic places or objects (temples, icons). Myths are specific accounts of gods or superhuman beings involved in extraordinary events or circumstances in a time that is unspecified but which is understood as existing apart from ordinary human experience.

Good Neighbours

I love this picure for it’s technique, attention to detail, and the timelessness of it. I think that it is a “treasure”.

Hylas and the Nymphs

Hylas, in ancient Greek legend, son of Theiodamas (king of the Dryopians in Thessaly), favourite and companion of Heracles on the Argonautic expedition. 

Having gone ashore at Cios in Mysia to fetch water, he was dragged down by the nymphs of the spring in which he dipped his pitcher.

-Hylas | Greek mythology | Britannica

The story isn’t long, but it does seem important. It has continued to be represented in art and in story (though there have DEFINITELY been some changes made to make it fit into the new cultures), but it was also super important in ancient Greece, where sacrifices were made in a festival in his honor. Rituals were done in his name.

This story is found slightly more fully in Book One of the Argonautica, and in that version, it is clarified that he walked off from the group hoping to get water to make a meal for his man.

His man, of course, was Herakles.

Now, we should sidenote here that Herakles definitely liked a sexy youth or two. Hylas is the most famous of his beloveds, but by no means the only one.

This does not mean that Heracles was gay. It does not even mean that he was bi. These terms did not even exist. Although I think this topic is fascinating, I will suffice it to say that the relationship between Hylas and Herakles was very normal and even celebrated in ancient Greek culture. 

So it would make sense that Hylas (the beloved and “passive” partner) would be getting water to make something nice before Herakles got back to camp.

But, unfortunately for him, he was deep in Pegae territory.

Now, most of them were away guarding the forest for a nymphaic jamboree they were planning on throwing for Artemis, but one chick was left to hold down the fort, I suppose and when she saw Hylas, standing there in the moonlight (moonlight is like mood lighting …) lookin’ all pretty and sexy, her heart just went pitter pat.

It didn’t help that Aphrodite was there aiding the whole process (didn’t help Hylas that is).

And if you have read about the nymphs, then you know, this is NOT a good situation our young man is walking into.

The authors have already established that he’s kinda delicate, that he’s relatively passive in his relationships, he’s young, and he’s mortal.

Said nymph may appear delicate, but she is super powerful compared to this dude, and no good can come from relationships where women hold more power than men – at least not in ancient Greek mythology.

You already know what happens next, but I’ll spin in out all poetic like.

Hylas, dipping like a dancer, kneels and drags his pitcher through the water. And as his arm went into the water, her arm came out and wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer for a kiss.

Truly, our source must have been a mouse watching from land, because the story ends there.

We do not even know if she got her kiss, because when Hylas tumbled into the water, it was the last anyone ever heard of him.

Sure, Herakles searched the island for a long time, but eventually, the crew of the Argo gave up and continued their quest without him.

The moral of the story?

Don’t be like Hylas.

Saint Eulalia

Eulalia was a Christian girl who had the cosmic misfortune of being born in Barcelona in the third century after Jesus, during the reign of Roman emperor Diocleciano.

Diocleciano was the kind of emperor who didn’t like Christians and wanted them all to recant their faith.

Unfortunately, Eulalia was of the mindset that she’s an independent girl who don’t need no emperor telling her who to worship.

Diocleciano didn’t like that.

So her ordered that Eulalia suffer 13 tortures, one for each of her years on earth. Yep, she was 13 when she was tortured to death and subsequently martyred. 

ST EULALIA 13 TORTURES

Her tortures were (because we’re a morbid bunch when fucked-up shit happened to ancient people):

  1. Imprisonment in a tiny prison,
  2. Being whipped,
  3. Tearing her skin in strips,
  4. Making her walk barefoot on burning embers,
  5. The cutting off of her breasts,
  6. Rubbing her wounds with rough stones,
  7. Branding her with cast iron,
  8. Throwing boiling oil and,
  9. Molten lead over her,
  10. Submerged in burning lime,
  11. Locked in a flea box,
  12. Rolled down a hill, naked, in a barrel full of knives, swords and glass, and finally,
  13. Crucified in the form of a cross.

After all that she was decapitated and apparently a white dove flew from her neck. This is why there are 13 geese in the Barcelonan cathedral of Saint Eulalia. (doves, geese, whatevers).

Holy smokes!

And now, after all of that, she gets a relatively crappy festival compared to Merce’s amazing one? How flaky are the Catalans? Poor Eulalia goes through all that and then they try and replace her because she maybe didn’t chase off some insects? Give us a break!

The Story and History of Saint Eulalia

The story and history of Saint Eulalia. Saint Eulalia was a native of Merida, in Spain. 

She was but twelve years old when the bloody edicts of Diocletian were issued. 

Eulalia presented herself before the cruel judge Dacianus, and reproached him for attempting to destroy souls by compelling them to renounce the only true God. 

The governor commanded her to be seized, and at first tried to win her over by flattery, but failing in this, he had recourse to threats, and caused the most dreadful instruments of torture to be placed before her eyes, saying to her: "All this you shall escape if you will but touch a little salt and frankincense with the tip of your finger." 

Provoked at these seducing flatteries, our Saint threw down the idol, and trampled upon the cake which was laid for the sacrifice. 

At the judge's order, two executioners tore her tender sides with iron hooks, so as to leave the very bones bare. 

Next lighted torches were applied to her breasts and sides; under which torment, instead of groans, nothing was heard from her mouth but thanksgivings. 

The fire at length catching her hair, surrounded her head and face, and the Saint was stifled by the smoke and flame.

-St. Eulalia of Merida - Saints & Angels - Catholic Online

Mariamne Leaving the Judgement Seat of Herod

Things were totally and completely fucked-up in the old days.

King Herod of Judea

Herod I ( c. 74/73 BCE – 4 BCE/1 CE), also known as Herod the Great, was the King of Judea from 37 to 4 BC. At the time Judea was a client state of Rome. During his 33 year reign, Herod was an excellent administrator. But he is most famous for the Bible account of his killing the boys of Bethlehem.

-Herod the Great

Herod was an Idumaenean, from the Land of Edom, a desert region of nomads to the south of Judaea. His father was Antipater, who became a trusted procurator of Judaea, and his mother was Kupros, a woman of Arab descent.

At that time the King of Judaea was Hyrcanus II.

He was from the family of Hasmoneans, a popular nationalist, Jewish family who had been priests and Kings of the area from about the second century BC.

Antipater was, in his new position and friendship with King Hyrcanus II able to secure good jobs for his sons.

One of them, Phasael was made prefect of Jerusalem and the other son, Herod, was given the job of military prefect of Galilee.

Herod, now moving in the royal circles, caught the eye of Mariamne, the granddaughter of Hyrcanus II and, after divorcing his wife Doris, they became engaged to be married.

However, in 40 BC things took a turn for the worse as the Parthians invaded the area and set up Antigonus, another Hasmonaean, as King.

As Jerusalem fell, Herod escaped with his family but Hyrcanus and Phasael were captured.

After making sure that his family were safe he set off for Rome where he persuaded the Roman senate to give him the title, ‘King of the Jews’, and to pledge himself to return and take Judaea back under Roman allegiance.

He returned to the Palestine region and starting from Galilee he slowly took control of his kingdom.

In just three years he succeeded in capturing Antigonus, and with his new bride Mariamne, the grandaughter of Hyrcanus, he began to rule his kingdom.

King Herod began to rebuild the temple.

He established new towns and harbours and brought neighbouring regions into his own kingdom and in alliance to Rome. However, this apparently successful story of how a member of an Idumaenean nomadic family became the ruler of a kingdom was unfortunately marred by Herod’s chronic insecurity.

This was partly because the Jews did not like him because he was an Idumaenean.

Although he practised Judaism, it was not thought that he gave it much priority.

In modern terms he was a multi-faith enthusiast, giving credence to other religious ideas which in Jewish eyes diluted his conviction to the faith .

Also against him was his overthrowing of Antigonus from the popular Hasmonean family.

He tried to overcome this by marrying Mariamne, King Hyrcanus II’s grandaughter, and therefore a Hasmonean princess.

He also curried favour with the people by placing Hasmoneans in important positions in his court.

This had the affect of making people tolerate his kingship but it also made him feel under even more threat from the very people he had promoted. and led to increasing insecurity.

Having reached the heights of Kingship, he never felt totally secure and he saw conspiracy and plotting from every quarter.

(uh oh…)

First to be killed on his orders was his brother-in-law and high priest, Aristobulus.

While answering the charge of his murder in Egypt he gave the order to his uncle Joseph that if he should die, then his wife and her mother were to be executed.

Herod managed to talk his way out of the murder charge, but on his return to Jerusalem found that his wife had learned his arrangement with Joseph.

Needless to say Mariamne was none too pleased to hear of this arrangement!

…!

Herod began to wonder why Joseph had told Mariamne, and came to the wrong conclusion they were having an affair.

In fact Joseph had told her of the plan in order to demonstrate Herod’s love for her.

However, despite the total lack of evidence Joseph was executed.

Herod was very much in love with Mariamne, but with jealous accusations from his other wives and Mariamne’s increasing coldness towards him, he eventually persuaded himself to have her executed too.

He regretted it straight away and became filled with guilt, making himself mentally and physically ill.

Thinking that Herod was about to die, Alexandra, Mariamne’s mother made arrangements to put Herod’s children by Mariamne, Alexander and Aristobulus, on the throne.

She too was then executed for her presumption!

Herod had 10 wives altogether and towards the end of Herod’s life, Antipater, the eldest son by his first wife began to realise that he was not favoured to take over from his father.

He was deeply jealous of the sons of Mariamne, and in order to discredit them he accused his two step brothers of treachery and, believing him, Herod had them both executed too.

Antipater must have thought he had got away with it, but just before Herod died, Antipater was executed as well, accused of trying to accelerate his death.

Signing Antipater’s death warrant, Augustus Caesar remarked that he would rather be Herod’s pig than Herod’s son!

Just before his death, Herod, realising that when he died there would be no great mourning, sent letters to the principle heads of every family in Judaism demanding their presence on pain of death.

Having got them to Jerusalem, Herod ordered them to be locked up in the horse-racing ground.

He then gave the orders to his sister that upon his death they were all to be executed.

Thus making sure that the whole nation would mourn when he died, albeit not for him.

(Talk about a fucked-up plan!)

Fortunately, when Herod died, his sister released the imprisoned Jews and allowed them to return home. Herod died 37 years after being declared ‘King of the Jews’, leaving four sons, to whom was given one quarter of his kingdom each. 

Diogenes

Diogenes of Sinope (c. 404-323 BCE) was a Greek Cynic philosopher best known for holding a lantern (or candle) to the faces of the citizens of Athens claiming he was searching for an honest man.

He was most likely a student of the philosopher Antisthenes (445-365 BCE) and, in the words of Plato (allegedly), was “A Socrates gone mad.” He was driven into exile from his native city of Sinope for defacing currency (though some sources say it was his father who committed the crime and Diogenes simply followed him into exile).

Diogenes came to Athens where he met Antisthenes who at first refused him as a student but, eventually, was worn down by his persistence and accepted him.

Like Antisthenes, Diogenes believed in self-control, the importance of personal excellence in one’s behavior (in Greek, arete, usually translated as `virtue’), and the rejection of all which was considered unnecessary in life such as personal possessions and social status.

He was so ardent in his beliefs that he lived them very publicly in the market place of Athens. He took up residence in a large wine cask (some sources claim it was an abandoned bathtub), owned nothing, and seems to have lived off the charity of others.

He owned a cup which served also has a bowl for food but threw it away when he saw a boy drinking water from his hands and realized one did not even need a cup to sustain oneself.

It seems clear that Diogenes believed what people called `manners’ were simply lies used to hide the true nature of the individual.

He was known for brutal honesty in conversation, paid no attention to any kind of etiquette regarding social class, and seems to have had no problem urinating or even masturbating in public and, when criticized, pointed out that such activities were normal and that everyone engaged in them but hid in private what he did openly.

Diogenes was a widely misunderstood man.

Pandora

In Greek mythology, Pandora was the first human woman created by Hephaestus on the instructions of Zeus. As Hesiod related it, each god co-operated by giving her unique gifts. Her other name—inscribed against her figure on a white-ground kylix in the British Museum—is Anesidora, "she who sends up gifts".

-Wikipedia

When Prometheus stole fire from the gods, Zeus created Pandora as a punishment for mankind. One would think Zeus had doled out enough punishment after sentencing Prometheus to spend an eternity chained to a rock while birds pecked at his liver, but it seemed the king of the gods had more in store.

Zeus commissioned the god Hephaestus to sculpt a beautiful woman out of clay, and she was given gifts from a few gods before she was sent down to fulfill her purpose. Pandora was sent to be the wife of Epimetheus (Prometheus’s brother), and only brought one thing with her: a container full of all the world’s evils. 

Of course, Zeus didn’t tell Pandora what was inside the box – instead, he told her to never open it, and then gave the key to her husband, because when you tell someone to not do something, you put temptation as close as possible. Can you blame her for sneaking a peek? 

Pandora's box is an artifact in Greek mythology connected with the myth of Pandora in Hesiod's Works and Days. In modern times an idiom has grown from it meaning "Any source of great and unexpected troubles", or alternatively "A present which seems valuable but which in reality is a curse". Later depictions of the fatal container have been varied, while some literary and artistic treatments have focused more on the contents of the idiomatic box than on Pandora herself. The container mentioned in the original story was actually a large storage jar but the word was later mistranslated as "box".

-Wikipedia

Like any rational creature, Pandora’s curiosity was piqued when she was given a secret container, told never to open it, and sent to earth to marry a stranger who held the key to this mystery vessel. Unfortunately, the temptation was just too much and it was this curiosity that unleashed all the world’s evils.

The list of items released from Pandora’s box are a handful: illness, worry, crime, hate, envy… basically any bad thing you could think of. They flew out of the box like little bugs, and Pandora tried to shut it back up as quickly as she could. She did, according to some of the versions of her myth, manage to trap one important thing inside: hope

It is disputed why Zeus would even put hope in a vessel of evils. One rationale is that Zeus wasn’t the worst, and snuck hope in there as some sort of nicety in the midst of all the other horrors. Another is that Zeus meant for hope to remain in the box, to make the people suffer even more, and make them understand why they should never cross him again.  

When Zeus sent Pandora to Earth, he married her off to Prometheus’s brother, Epimetheus. It seems odd that Zeus would gift a beautiful woman to the brother of someone he hated, but Pandora was supposed to be a punishment, so maybe it was part of his bigger plan. In fact, Prometheus warned his brother not to accept any gifts from the gods, but Epimetheus was too drawn in by Pandora’s beauty. She was crafted by the gods, after all.

Zeus entrusted Epimetheus with the key to Pandora’s box, which he refused to give to her no matter how hard she begged. So, eventually, Pandora snuck it away from him as he slept and unlocked the box herself (other versions of the myth also say Pandora simply broke the seal of the pithos). 

Nymphs finding the Head of Orpheus

Nymphs Finding The Head of Orpheus is one of his most dramatic. The painting depicts two curious nymphs sitting by a small waterfall watching the head of Orpheus as it floats in a pool of water among the lily pads. A beautiful gift for fans of John William Waterhouse, Mythological Paintings, Orpheus, and Fantasy art

-Nymphs Finding The Head of Orpheus

Orpheus is a figure from ancient Greek mythology, most famous for his virtuoso ability in playing the lyre or kithara.

His music could charm the wild animals of the forest, and even streams would pause and trees bend a little closer to hear his sublime singing. He was also a renowned poet, travelled with Jason and the Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece, and even descended into the Underworld of Hades to recover his lost wife Eurydice.

Orpheus was seen as the head of a poetic tradition known as Orphism where, according to some scholars, adherents performed certain rituals and composed or read poems, texts, and hymns, which included an alternative view of humanity’s origins. Orpheus is widely referenced in all forms of ancient Greek art from pottery to sculpture.

He had quite an interesting life…

  • A member of Jason’s expedition to find the Golden Fleece.
  • Orpheus married Eurydice (aka Agriope).
  • Eurydice died, in some accounts, on her wedding night.
  • Orpheus followed his love down to Hades, the Greek Underworld.
  • He was able to rescue her, provided he would not glance behind.
  • He did, and lost her.
  • He never got over her and roamed the forests of Thrace.

Orpheus’ misery would soon end, though, when he was set upon by a group of frenzied Maenads (the female followers of Dionysos, the god of wine).

They stoned him to the ground and ripped him to pieces for his lack of merriment.

According to Plutarch (c. 45-50 – c. 120-125 CE), the Maenads were punished for their crime by being turned into trees. Other Thracian women had their bodies tattooed by their husbands as a warning not to repeat such a crime – a cultural practice in the region stretching from antiquity to modern times. 

And thus…

… in the forests of Thrace…

…Nymphs find the stoned head of Orpheus.

The Orange Gatherers

It’s just a nice painting. I love the technique and the composition.

At Capri

And finally, I’ll end this post with another nice printing. There might be a story abhind it, but I don’t really know what it is. I just love the colors and composition.

Do you want more?

I have more posts in my Art Index here…

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The Road to the Rim (full text) in free HTML by A. Bertram Chandler

When I was a young teenager, I voraciously read science fiction stories like they were going out of style. I couldn’t help myself. I loved the adventure. I loved the stories about outer space. I loved exploration, and shiny metal mechanisms. I loved to hear the heroes get in and out of their particular predicaments. And as such, I read all the “classics”, from anthologies to Heinlein, Bradbury, Asimov, and many others. One of my favorites (alongside my collection of Doc Savage books) was the hundreds of stories by A. Bertram Chandler and his John Grimes saga.

This was around the time of Star Trek (the first season) and before Star Wars or any of the subsequent movies. Boys like myself read these adventure yarns and imagined that we commanded those slick needle-shaped silver rockets and plied the depths of space.

The idea of a “space opera” during the 1960’s and 1970’s was one in which a lone person would explore the heavens as part of some kind of military or merchant marine operation. It was short in space battles and infra-cannons, phasers, and photon-torpedoes. But long on adventure, inter-personal relationships and situational conflicts. I ate it up.

A. Bertram Chandler

A. Bertram Chandler wrote over 40 novels and 200 works of short fiction.

“He writes his stories in the middle of a hurricane with his typewriter lashed to his desk.” 

– John W. Campbell, legendary editor of Astounding Science Fiction

Chandler’s descriptions of life aboard spaceships and the relationships between members of the crew en route derive from his experience on board seagoing ships and thus carry a feeling of realism rarely found with other writers.

He was most well known for his Rim World series and John Grimes novels, both of which have a distinctly naval flavor. In the latter, Chandler’s principal hero John Grimes is an enthusiastic sailor who has occasional adventures on the oceans of various planets.

In the books, there is a repeated reference to an obsolete type of magnetically powered spaceship known as the “Gaussjammer”, remembered nostalgically by “old timers” – which is modeled on the Windjammer.

Chandler made heavy use of the parallel universe plot device throughout his career, with many Grimes stories involving characters briefly crossing over into other realities.

In his ironic short story "The Cage", a band of shipwrecked humans wandering naked in the jungles of a faraway planet are captured by aliens and placed in a zoo, where, failing in all their efforts to convince their captors that they are intelligent, some are dissected. Eventually they become resigned to captivity and adopt a small local rodent as a pet, placing him in a wicker cage. Seeing this, their captors apologize for the mistake and repatriate them to Earth, remarking that "only intelligent creatures put other creatures in cages".

Sex is frequent in Chandler’s books, often in free fall. Women on board are typically pursers or passengers; far less often are they regular officers in the chain of command. Chandler’s protagonists are quite prone to affairs and promiscuous behavior, but are also shown falling in love and undertaking long-lasting, harmonious marriages.

The combination of science fiction, life as a starship caption, adventure and sexy relationships in parallel universes was addictive to me. I couldn’t put these books down, and often I would find myself exploring old second-hand booksellers searching for a new and unread Chandler book.

Commander Grimes

"SF's answer to Horatio Hornblower." --Publishers Weekly

Pipe-smoking, action-loving spaceship commander John Grimes (think Captain Kirk with more of a navy, salty attitude) retires from heroic days in Earth’s space navy only to be immediately thrown into adventures on the remote edge of known space…

"As Asimov chronicled the Foundation, as Heinlein built his Future History, so Chandler constructs the epic of the Rim Worlds." --Analog

This is the very first book in the John Grimes story / saga. Please enjoy it as much as I have.

The Road to the Rim

The Road to the Rim.
The Road to the Rim.

Lieutenant John Grimes of the Federation Survey Service: fresh out of the Academy-and as green as they come!

“What do you think you’re playing at?”

“Captain,” said Wolverton, “I can no more than guess at what you intend to do-but I have decided not to help you do it.”

“Give me the initiator, Wolverton. That’s an order!

“A lawful command, Captain? As lawful as those that armed this ship?” “Hold him, Grimes!”

. . . They hung there, clinging to each other, but more in hate than in love. Wolverton’s back was to the machine; he could not see, as could Grimes, that there was an indraught of air into the shimmering, spinning  complexity. Grimes felt the beginnings of panic . . . all that mattered was that there was nothing to prevent him and Wolverton from being drawn into the machine . . . .Violently Grimes shoved away. To the action, there was a reaction . . .

When he had finished retching, Grimes forced himself to look again at the slimy, bloody obscenity that was a man turned inside out-heart still beating, intestines still writhing . . .

I

HIS UNIFORM was new, too new, all knife-edged creases, and the braid and buttons as yet un-dimmed by time. It sat awkwardly upon his chunky

body-and even more awkwardly his big ears protruded from under the cap that was set too squarely upon his head. Beneath the shiny visor his eyes were gray (but not yet hard), and his face, for all its promise of strength, was as yet unlined, had yet to lose its immature softness. He stood at the foot of the ramp by which he had disembarked from the transport that had carried him from the Antarctic Base to Port Woomera, looking across the silver towers that were the ships, interplanetary and interstellar, gleaming in the desert. The westering sun was hot on his back, but he did not notice the discomfort. There were the ships, the real ships-not obsolescent puddle-jumpers like the decrepit cruiser in which he, with the other midshipmen of his class, had made the training cruise to the moons of Saturn. There were the ships, the star ships, that span their web of commerce from Earth to the Centaurian planets, to the Cluster Worlds, to the Empire of Waverley, to the Shakespearian Sector and beyond.

(But they’re only merchantmen, he thought, with a young man’s snobbery.) He wondered in which one of the vessels he would be taking passage.

Merchantman or not, that big ship, the one that stood out from her

neighbors like a city skyscraper among village church steeples, looked a likely enough craft. He pulled the folder containing his orders from his inside breast pocket, opened it, read (not for the second time, even), the

relevant page.

. . . you are to report on board the Interstellar Transport Commission’s Delta Orionis . . .

He was not a spaceman yet, in spite of his uniform, but he knew the Commission’s system of nomenclature. There was the Alpha class, and the Beta class, and there were the Gamma and Delta classes. He grinned wryly. His ship was one of the smaller ones. Well, at least he would not be traveling to Lindisfarne Base in an Epsilon class tramp.

Ensign John Grimes, Federation Survey Service, shrugged his broad shoulders and stepped into the ground car waiting to carry him and his baggage from the airport to the spaceport.

II

GRIMES LOOKED at the officer standing just inside Delta Orionis’ airlock, and she looked at him. He felt the beginnings of a flush spreading over his face, a prickling of the roots of his close-cropped hair, and felt all the more embarrassed by this public display of his embarrassment. But spaceborn female officers, at this time, were almost as scarce as hens’ teeth in the Survey Service-and such few as he had met all looked as though they shared a common equine ancestry. It was all wrong, thought Grimes. It was unfair that this girl (this attractive girl) should already be a veteran of interstellar voyages while he, for all his uniform and commission, should be embarking upon his first, his very first trip outside the bounds of the Solar System. He let his glance fall from her face (but not without reluctance), to the braid on her shoulderboards. Gold on a white facing. So it wasn’t too bad. She was only some sort of paymaster-or, to use Merchant Service terminology, only some sort of purser.

She said, her clear, high voice almost serious, “Welcome aboard the Delia O’Ryan, Admiral.”

“Ensign,” corrected Grimes stiffly. “Ensign Grimes . . .”

  • . . . of the Federation Survey Service,” she finished for him. “But you are all potential admirals.” There was the faintest of smiles flickering upon her full lips, a barely discernible crinkling at the corners of her eyes. Her brown eyes, thought Grimes. Brown eyes, and what I can see of her hair under that cap seems to be auburn . . .

She glanced at her wristwatch. She told him, her voice now crisp and businesslike, “We lift ship in precisely ten minutes’ time, Ensign.”

“Then I’d better get my gear along to my cabin, Miss . . . ?”

“I’ll look after that, Mr. Grimes. Meanwhile, Captain Craven sends his compliments and invites you to the Control Room.”

“Thank you.” Grimes looked past and around the girl, trying to discover for himself the door that gave access to the ship’s axial shaft. He was determined not to ask.

“It’s labeled,” she told him with a faint smile. “And the cage is waiting at

this level. Just take it up as far as it goes, then walk the rest. Or do you want a pilot?”

“I can manage,” he replied more coldly than he had intended, adding, “thank you.” He could see the sign over the door now. It was plain enough. AXIAL SHAFT. So was the button that he had to press to open the door-but the girl pressed it for him. He thanked her again-and this time his coldness was fully intentional-and stepped into the cage. The door slid shut behind him. The uppermost of the studs on the elevator’s control panel was marked CAPTAIN’S DECK. He pushed it, then stood there and watched the lights flashing on the panel as he was swiftly lifted to the nose of the ship.

When he was carried no further he got out, found himself on a circular walk surrounding the upper extremity of the axial shaft. On the outside of the shaft itself there was a ladder. After a second’s hesitation he climbed it, emerged through a hatch into the control room.

It was like the control room of the cruiser in which he had made his training cruise-and yet subtly (or not so subtly), unlike it. Everything- but so had it been aboard the Survey Service vessel-was functional, but there was an absence of high polish, of polishing for polishing’s sake. Instruments gleamed-but it was the dull gleam that comes from long and continual use, and matched the dull gleam of the buttons and rank marks on the uniforms of the officers already seated at their stations, the spacemen to whom, after all, a uniform was no more (and no less), than an obligatory working rig.

The big man with the four gold bars on each shoulder half turned his head as Grimes came up through the hatch. “Glad to have you aboard, Ensign,” he said perfunctorily. “Grab yourself a seat-there’s a spare one alongside the Mate’s. Sorry there’s no time for introductions right now. We’re due to get upstairs.”

“Here!” grunted one of the officers.

Grimes made his way to the vacant acceleration chair, dropped into it, strapped himself in. While he was so doing he heard the Captain ask, “All secure, Mr. Kennedy?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why the hell not?”

“I’m still waiting for the purser’s report, sir.”

“Are you?” Then, with a long-suffering sigh, “I suppose she’s still tucking some passenger into her-or his-bunk . . . .”

“She could still be stowing some passenger’s gear, sir,” contributed Grimes. “Mine,” he added.

“Indeed?” The Captain’s voice was cold and elaborately uninterested. Over the intercom came a female voice. “Purser to Control. All secure

below.”

“And bloody well time,” grumbled the shipmaster. Then, to the officer at the transceiver, “Mr. Digby, kindly obtain clearance.”

“Obtain clearance, sir,” acknowledged that young man brightly. Then, into his microphone, “Delta Orionis to Port Control. Request clearance to lift ship. Over.”

“Port Control to Delta Orionis. You may lift. Bon voyage. Over.” “Thank you, Port Control. Over and out.”

Then the ship was throbbing to the rhythmic beat of her Inertial Drive, and Grimes felt that odd sense of buoyancy, of near weightlessness, that persisted until the vessel broke contact with the ground-and then the still gentle acceleration induced the reverse effect. He looked out through the nearest viewport. Already the ocher surface of the desert, streaked by the long, black shadows of ships and spaceport buildings, was far below them, with the vessels and the immobile constructions looking like toys, and one or two surface vehicles like scurrying insects. Far to the north, dull-ruddy against the blue of the sky, there was a sandstorm. If that sky were darker, thought Grimes, this would look like Mars, and the mental comparison reminded him that he, too, was a spaceman, that he, too, had been around (although only within the bounds of Sol’s planetary system). Even so, he was Survey Service, and these others with him in Control were only merchant officers, fetchers and carriers, interstellar coach and truck drivers. (But he envied them their quiet competency.)

Still the ship lifted, and the spaceport below her dwindled, and the land horizon to the north and the now visible sea horizon to the south began to display the beginnings of curvature. Still she lifted, and overhead the sky was dark, and the first bright stars, Sirius and Canopus, Alpha and Beta Centauri, were sparkling there, beckoning, as they had beckoned for ages immemorial before the first clumsy rocket clambered heavenward up the ladder of its own fiery exhaust, before the first airplane spread its flimsy wings, before the first balloon was lifted by the hot, expanding gases from its airborne furnace . . . .

“Mr. Grimes,” said the Captain suddenly, his voice neither friendly nor unfriendly.

“Sir?”

“We lift on I.D. until we’re clear of the Van Allens.”

“I know, sir,” said Grimes-then wished that he could unsay the words. But it was too late. He was conscious of the shipmaster’s hostile silence, of the amused contempt of the merchant officers. He shrank into his chair, tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. The ship’s people talked among themselves in low voices, ignoring him. They allowed themselves a period  of relaxation, producing and lighting cigarettes. Nobody offered the Ensign one.

Sulkily he fumbled for his pipe, filled it, lighted it. The Chief Officer coughed with quite unnecessary vigor. The Captain growled, “Put that out, please,” and muttered something about stinking out the control room. He,

himself, was puffing at a villainous black cigar.

The ship lifted, and below her the Earth was now a great sphere,

three-quarters in darkness, the line of the terminator drawn across land masses, cloud formations and oceans. City lights twinkled in the gloom like star clusters, like nebulae. In a quiet voice an officer was calling readings from the radar altimeter.

To the throbbing of the Inertial Drive was added the humming, shrilling to a whine, of the directional gyroscopes as the ship turned about her short axis hunting the target star. The pseudo-gravity of centrifugal force was at an odd angle to that of acceleration-and the resultant was at an odder angle still. Grimes began to feel sick-and was actually thankful that the Captain had made him put his pipe out. Alarm bells sounded, and then somebody was saying over the intercom. “Prepare for acceleration. Prepare for acceleration. Listen for the countdown.”

The countdown. Part of the long tradition of space travel, a hangover from the days of the first, unreliable rockets. Spaceships still used rockets-but only as auxiliaries, as a means of delivering thrust in a hurry, of building up acceleration in a short time.

At the word Zero! the Inertial Drive was cut and, simultaneously, the Reaction Drive flared into violent life. The giant hand of acceleration bore down heavily upon all in the ship-then, suddenly, at a curt order from the Captain, lifted.

Grimes became aware of a thin, high keening, the song of the

ever-precessing gyroscopes of the Mannschenn Drive. He knew the theory of it-as what spaceman did not?-although the mathematics of it were beyond the comprehension of all but a handful of men and women. He knew what was happening, knew that the ship, now that speed had been built up, was, as one of his instructors had put it, going ahead in space and astern in  time. He felt, as he had been told that he would feel, the uncanny  sensation of d‚j… vu, and watched the outlines of the control room and of every person and instrument in the compartment shift and shimmer, the colors sagging down the spectrum.

Ahead, the stars were pulsating spirals of opalescence, astern, Earth and Moon were frighteningly distorted, uncanny compromises between the sphere and the tesseract. But this was no more than the merest subliminal glimpse; in the twinkling of an eye the Home Planet and her daughter were no more than dust motes whirling down the dark dimensions.

The Captain lit a fresh cigar. “Mr. Kennedy,” he said, “you may set normal Deep Space watches.” He turned to Grimes. His full beard almost hid his expression, that of one performing a social duty with no enthusiasm. “Will you join me in my day cabin, Ensign?”

“It will be my pleasure, sir,” lied Grimes. III

HANDLING HIS BIG BODY with easy grace in the Free Fall conditions, the Captain led the way from the control room. Grimes followed slowly and

clumsily, but with a feeling of great thankfulness that after his training cruise he was no longer subject to spacesickness. There were drugs, of course, and passengers used them, but a spaceman was expected to be independent of pharmaceutical aids. Even so, the absence of any proper “up” or “down” bothered him more than he cared to admit.

The shipmaster slid open the door to his accommodation, motioned to Grimes to enter, murmuring sardonically, “Now you see how the poor live.” The so-called poor, thought Grimes, didn’t do at all badly. This Deep Space sitting room was considerably larger than the day cabin of the Survey Service cruiser’s Captain had been. True, it was also shabbier-but it was far more comfortable. Its decorations would never have been approved aboard a warship, were obviously the private property of the Master. There were a full dozen holograms on the bulkhead, all of them widely differing but all of them covering the same subject matter. Not that the subject matter was covered.

“My harem,” grunted the Captain. “That one there, the redhead, I met on Caribbea. Quite a stopover that was. The green-haired wench-and you can see that it’s not a dye job, although I’ve often wondered why women can’t be thorough- isn’t human, of course. But indubitably humanoid, and indubitably mammalian. Belongs to Brrrooonooorrrooo-one of the worlds of the Shaara Empire. The local Queen Mother offered to sell Lalia-that’s her name-to me for a case of Scotch. And I was tempted . . .” He sighed. “But you Service Survey types aren’t the only ones who have to live by Regulations.”

Grimes said nothing, tried to hide his interest in the art gallery.

“But take a pew, Ensign. Spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard-this is Liberty Hall.”

Grimes pulled himself to one of the comfortable chairs, strapped himself in. He said lamely, “I don’t see any cat, sir.”

“A figure of speech,” growled the Captain, seating himself next to what looked like a drink cabinet. “Well, Mr. Grimes, your Commandant at the Academy, Commodore Bradshaw, is an old friend and shipmate of mine. He said that you were a very promising young officer”-like a balloon in a comic strip the unspoken words, “God knows why,” hung between them-“and asked me to keep an eye on you. But I have already gained the impression that there is very little that a mere merchant skipper such as myself will be able to teach you.”

Grimes looked at the bulky figure seated opposite him, at the

radiation-darkened skin of the face above the black, silver-streaked beard, at the fiercely jutting nose, at the faded but bright and intelligent blue eyes, the eyes that were regarding him with more than a hint of amused contempt. He blushed miserably as he recalled his brash, “I know, sir,” in this man’s own control room. He said, with an effort, “This is my first Deep Space voyage, sir.”

“I know.” Surprisingly the Captain chuckled-and as though to celebrate this minor scoring over his guest opened the liquor cabinet. “Pity to have to

suck this excellent Manzanila out of a bulb-but that’s one of the hardships of Free Fall. Here!” He tossed a little pear-shaped container to Grimes, kept one for himself. “Your health, Ensign!”

“And yours, sir.”

The wine was too dry for Grimes’ taste, but he made a pretense of enjoying it. He was thankful that he was not asked to have a second drink. Meanwhile, his host had pulled a typewritten sheet from a drawer of his desk and was looking at it. “Let me see, now . . . You’re in cabin 15, on D Deck. You’ll be able to find your own way down, won’t you?”

Grimes said that he would and unbuckled his lapstrap. It was obvious that the party was over.

“Good. Now, as an officer of the Survey Service you have the freedom of the control room and the engine rooms . . . . “

“Thank you, sir.”

“Just don’t abuse the privilege, that’s all.”

After that, thought Grimes, I’m not likely to take advantage of it, let alone abuse it. He let himself float up from his chair, said, “Thank you, sir.” (For the drink, or for the admonition? What did it matter?) “I’ll be getting down to my cabin, sir. I’ve some unpacking to do.”

“As you please, Mr. Grimes.”

The Captain, his social duty discharged, had obviously lost interest in his guest. Grimes let himself out of the cabin and made his way, not without difficulty, to the door in the axial shaft. He was surprised at the extent to which one not very large drink had interfered with the control of his body in Free Fall. Emerging from the elevator cage on D Deck he stumbled, literally, into the purser. “Let go of me,” she ordered, “or I shall holler rape!”

That, he thought, is all I need to make this trip a really happy one. She disengaged herself, moved back from him, her slim, sandaled feet,

magnetically shod, maintaining contact with the steel decking, but

gracefully, with a dancing motion. She laughed. “I take it that you’ve just come from a home truth session with B.B.”

“B.B.?”

“The Bearded Bastard. But don’t take it too much to heart. He’s that way with all junior officers. The fact that you’re Survey Service is only incidental.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“His trouble,” she went on. “His real trouble is that he’s painfully shy.” He’s not the only one, thought Grimes, looking at the girl. She seemed

even more attractive than on the occasion of their first meeting. She had changed into shorts-and-shirt shipboard uniform-and she was one of the

rare women who could wear such a rig without looking lumpy and clumpy. There was no cap now to hide her hair-smooth, lustrous, with coppery glints, with a straight white part bisecting the crown of her finely shaped head.

She was well aware of his scrutiny. She said, “You must excuse me, Ensign. I have to look after the other customers. They aren’t seasoned spacemen like you.”

Suddenly bold, he said, “But before you go, what is your name?”

She smiled dazzlingly. “You’ll find a list of all ship’s personnel posted in your cabin. I’m included.” Then she was gone, gliding rapidly around the curve of the alleyway.

He looked at the numbers over the cabin doors, outboard from the axial shaft, making a full circuit of that hollow pillar before he realized that this was only the inner ring, that he would have to follow one of the radial alleyways to reach his own accommodation. He finally found No. 15 and let himself in.

His first action was to inspect the framed notices on the bulkhead.

I.S.S. Delta Orionis, he read. Captain J. Craven, O.G.S., S.S.R.

So the Old Man held a Reserve commission. And the Order of the Golden Star was awarded for something more than good attendance.

Mr. P. Kennedy, Chief Officer.

He ignored the other names on the list while he searched for one he wanted. Ah, here it was.

Miss Jane Pentecost, Purser.

He repeated the name to himself, thinking that, despite the old play on words, this Jane was not plain. (But Janes rarely are.) Jane Pentecost . . . Then, feeling that he should be showing some professional interest, he acquainted himself with the names of the other members of the ship’s crew. He was intrigued by the manning scale, amazed that such a large vessel, relatively speaking, could be run by such a small number of people. But this was not a warship; there were no weapons to be manned, there would never be the need to put a landing party ashore on the surface of a hostile planet. The Merchant Service could afford to automate, to employ machinery in lieu of ratings. The Survey Service could not.

Virtuously he studied the notices dealing with emergency procedures, ship’s routine, recreational facilities and all the rest of it, examined with care the detailed plan of the ship. Attached to this was a card, signed by the  Master, requesting passengers to refrain, as much as possible, from using the elevator in the axial shaft, going on to say that it was essential, for the good of their physical health, that they miss no opportunity for taking exercise. (In a naval vessel, thought Grimes, with a slight sneer, that  would not be a request-it would be an order. And, in any case, there would

be compulsory calisthenics for all hands.)

He studied the plan again and toyed with the idea of visiting the bar before dinner. He decided against it; he was still feeling the effects of the drink that the Captain had given him. So, to pass the time, he unpacked slowly and carefully, methodically stowing his effects in the drawers under the bunk. Then, but not without reluctance, he changed from his uniform into his one formal civilian suit. One of the officer-instructors at the Academy had advised this. “Always wear civvies when you’re traveling as passenger. If you’re in uniform, some old duck’s sure to take you for one of the ship’s officers and ask you all sorts of technical questions to which you don’t know the answers.”

While he was adjusting his frilled cravat in front of the mirror the sonorous notes of a gong boomed from the intercom.

IV

THE DINING SALOON was much more ornate than the gunroom of that training cruiser had been, and more ornate than her wardroom. The essentials were the same, of course, as they are in any ship-tables and chairs secured to the deck, each seat fitted with its strap so that the comforting pressure of buttocks on padding could give an illusion of gravity. Each table was covered with a gaily colored cloth-but beneath the fabric there was the inevitable stainless steel to which the stainless steel service would be held by its own magnetic fields. But what impressed Grimes was the care that had been taken, the ingenuity that had been exercised to make this compartment look like anything but part of a ship.

The great circular pillar of the axial shaft was camouflaged by trelliswork, and the trelliswork itself almost hidden by the luxuriance of some

broad-level climbing plant that he could not identify. Smaller pillars were similarly covered, and there was a further efflorescence of living decoration all around the circular outer wall-the wall that must be the inner skin of the ship. And there were windows in this wall. No, Grimes decided, not windows, but holograms. The glowing, three dimensional pictures presented and maintained the illusion that this was a hall set in the middle of some great park. But on what world? Grimes could not say. Trees, bushes and flowers were unfamiliar, and the color of the sky subtly strange.

He looked around him at his fellow diners, at the dozen passengers and the ship’s officers, most of whom were already seated. The officers were in  neat undress uniform. About half the male passengers were, like himself, formally attired; the others were sloppy in shorts and shirts. But this was the first night out and some laxity was allowable. The women, however, all seemed to have decided to outshine the glowing flowers that flamed outside the windows that were not windows.

There was the Captain, unmistakable with his beard and the shimmering rainbow of ribbons on the left breast of his blouse. There were the passengers at his table-the men inclined to portliness and pomposity, their women sleek and slim and expensive looking. Grimes was relieved to see that there was no vacant place-and yet, at the same time, rather hurt. He knew that he was only an Ensign, a one-ringer, and a very new Ensign at

that-but, after all, the Survey Service was the Survey Service.

He realized that somebody was addressing him. It was a girl, a small, rather chubby blonde. She was in uniform-a white shirt with black shoulder-boards, each bearing a narrow white stripe, sharply creased slacks, and black, highly polished shoes. Grimes assumed, correctly, that

she was a junior member of the purser’s staff. “Mr. Grimes,” she said, “will you follow me, please? “You’re at Miss Pentecost’s table.”

Willingly he followed the girl. She led him around the axial shaft to a table for four at which the purser with two passengers, a man and a woman, was already seated. Jane Pentecost was attired as was his guide, the severity of her gold-trimmed black and white in pleasing contrast to the pink and blue frills and flounces that clad the other woman, her slenderness in still more pleasing contrast to the other’s untidy plumpness.

She smiled and said pleasantly, “Be seated, Admiral.”

“Admiral?” asked the man at her left, unpleasantly incredulous. He had, obviously, been drinking. He was a rough looking customer, in spite of the attempt that he had made to dress for dinner. He was twice the Ensign’s age, perhaps, although the heavily lined face under the scanty sandy hair made him look older. “Admiral?” He laughed, revealing irregular yellow teeth. “In what? The Space Scouts?”

Jane Pentecost firmly took control. She said, “Allow me to introduce Ensign Grimes, of the Survey Service . . .”

“Survey Service . . . Space Scouts . . . S.S . . . . What’s the difference?” “Plenty!” answered Grimes hotly.

The purser ignored the exchange. “Ensign, this is Mrs. Baxter . . . .” “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” simpered the woman.

“And Mr. Baxter.”

Baxter extended his hand reluctantly and Grimes took it reluctantly. The amenities observed, he pulled himself into his seat and adjusted his lapstrap. He was facing Jane Pentecost. The man was on his right, the woman on his left. He glanced first at her, then at her husband, wondering how to start and to maintain a conversation. But this was the purser’s table, and this was her responsibility.

She accepted it. “Now you’re seeing how the poor live, Admiral,” she remarked lightly.

Grimes, taking a tentative sip from his bulb of consomm‚, did not think that the self-styled poor did at all badly, and said as much. The girl grinned and told him that the first night out was too early to draw conclusions. “We’re still on shoreside meat and vegetables,” she told him, “and you’ll not be getting your first taste of our instant table wine until tomorrow. Tonight we wallow in the unwonted luxury of a quite presentable Montrachet. When we start living on the produce of our own so-called farm, washing it down with our own reconstituted plonk, you’ll see the difference.”

The Ensign replied that, in his experience, it didn’t matter if food came from tissue-culture vats or the green fields of Earth-what was important was the cook.

“Wide experience, Admiral?” she asked sweetly.

“Not very,” he admitted. “But the gunroom cook in my last ship couldn’t boil water without burning it.”

Baxter, noisily enjoying his dinner, said that this preoccupation with food and drink was symptomatic of the decadence of Earth. As he spoke his knife grated unpleasantly on the steel spines that secured his charcoal broiled steak to the surface of his plate.

Grimes considered inquiring if the man thought that good table manners were also a symptom of decadence, then thought better of it. After all, this was not his table. Instead, he asked, “And where are you from, Mr. Baxter?”

“The Rim Worlds, Mr. Grimes. Where we’re left to sink or swim-so we’ve no time for much else than keeping ourselves afloat.” He sucked noisily from his bulb of wine. “Things might be a little easier for us if your precious Survey Service did something about keeping the trade routes open.”

“That is our job,” said Grimes stiffly. “And we do it.”

“Like hell! There’s not a pirate in the Galaxy but can run rings around you!” “Practically every pirate has been hunted down and destroyed,” Grimes told

him coldly.

“Practically every pirate, the man says! A few small-time bunglers, he means!”

“Even the notorious Black Bart,” persisted Grimes.

“Black Bart!” Baxter, spluttering through his full mouth, gestured with his laden fork at Grimes. “Black Bart! He wasn’t much. Once he and that popsy of his split brass rags he was all washed up. I’m talkin’ about the real pirates, the ones whose ships wear national colors instead o’ the Jolly Roger, the ones that your precious Survey Service daren’t say boo to. The ones who do the dirty work for the Federation.”

“Such as?” asked Grimes frigidly.

“So now you’re playin’ the bleedin’ innocent. Never heard o’ the Duchy o’ Waldegren, Mr. Ensign Grimes?”

“Of course. Autonomous, but they and the Federation have signed what’s called a Pact of Perpetual Amity.”

“Pretty words, ain’t they? Suppose we analyze them. Suppose we analyze by analogy. D’yer know much about animals, Mr. Ensign Grimes?”

“Animals?” Grimes was puzzled. “Well, I suppose I do know something. I’ve taken the usual courses in xenobiology . . . .”

“Never mind that. You’re a Terry. Let’s confine ourselves to a selection of yer own Terran four-footed friends.”

“What the hell are you driving at?” flared Grimes, losing his temper. He threw an apologetic glance in Jane Pentecost’s direction, saw that she was more amused than shocked.

“Just think about a Pact of Perpetual Amity between an elephant and a tom cat,” said Baxter. “A fat an’ lazy elephant. A lean, scrawny, vicious tom cat. If the elephant wanted to he could convert that cat into a fur bedside rug just by steppin’ on him. But he doesn’t want to. He leaves the cat alone, just because the cat is useful to him. He does more than just leave him alone. He an’ this feline pull out their pens from wherever they keep ’em an’ sign their famous Pact.

“In case you haven’t worked it out for yourself, the elephant’s the Federation, and the tom cat’s the Duchy of Waldegren.”

“But why?” asked Grimes. “Why?”

“Don’t they teach you puppies any interstellar politics? Or are those courses reserved for the top brass? Well, Mr. Grimes, I’ll tell you. There’s one  animal that has the elephant really worried. Believe it or not, he’s scared o’ mice. An’ there’re quite a few mice inside the Federation, mice that make the elephant nervous by their rustlings an’ scurryings an’ their squeaky demands for full autonomy. That’s where the cat comes in. By his free use of his teeth an’ claws, by his very presence, he keeps the mice quiet.”

“And just who are these famous mice, Mr. Baxter?” asked Grimes.

“Don’t they teach you nothin’ in your bleedin’ Academy? Well, I’ll tell you.  In our neck o’ the woods, the mice are the Rim Worlds, an’ the tom cat, as I’ve already made clear, is the Duchy o’ Waldegren. The Duchy gets away with murder-murder an’ piracy. But accordin’ to the Duchy, an accordin’ to your big, stupid elephant of a Federation, it’s not piracy. It’s-now, lemme see, what fancy words have been used o’ late? Contraband Control. Suppression of Espionage. Violation of the Three Million Mile Limit. Every time that there’s an act of piracy there’s some quote legal unquote excuse for it, an’ it’s upheld by the Federation’s tame legal eagles, an’ you Survey Service sissies just sit there on your big, fat backsides an’ don’t lift a pinkie against your dear, murderous pals, the Waldegrenese. If you did, they send you screaming back to Base, where some dear old daddy of an Admiral’d spank your little plump bottoms for you.”

“Please, Mr. Baxter!” admonished Jane Pentecost.

“Sorry, Miss. I got sort of carried away. But my young brother was Third Reaction Drive Engineer of the old Bunyip when she went missing. Nothin’ was ever proved-but the Waldegrenese Navy was holdin’ fleet maneuvers in the sector she was passin’ through when last heard from. Oh, they’re cunnin’ bastards. They’ll never go for one o’ these ships, or one of the Trans-Galactic Clippers; it’ll always be some poor little tramp that nobody’ll ever miss but the friends an’ relatives o’ the crew. And, I suppose, the underwriters-but Lloyds makes such a packet out o’ the ships that don’t get lost that they can well afford to shell out now an’ again. Come to that, it

must suit ’em. As long as there’re a few ‘overdues’ an’ ‘missings’ they can keep the premiums up.”

“But I still can’t see how piracy can possibly pay,” protested Grimes.

“O’ course it pays. Your friend Black Bart made it pay. An’ if you’re goin’ to all the expense of building and maintaining a war fleet, it might just as well earn its keep. Even your famous Survey Service might show a profit if you were allowed to pounce on every fat merchantman who came within range o’ your guns.”

“But for the Federation to condone piracy, as you’re trying to make out . . . That’s utterly fantastic.”

“If you lived on the Rim, you might think different,” snarled Baxter. And Jane Pentecost contributed, “Not piracy. Confrontation.”

V

AS SOON AS the meal was finished the Baxters left rather hastily to make their way to the bar, leaving Grimes and Jane Pentecost to the leisurely enjoyment of their coffee. When the couple was out of earshot Grimes remarked, “So those are Rim Worlders. They’re the first I’ve met.”

“They’re not, you know,” the girl told him.

“But they are. Oh, there are one or two in the Survey Service, but I’ve never run across them. Now I don’t particularly want to.”

“But you did meet one Rim Worlder before you met the Baxters.” “The Captain?”

She laughed. “Don’t let him hear you say that-not unless you want to take a space walk without a suit!”

“Then who?”

“Who could it be, Admiral? Whom have you actually met, to talk to, so far in this ship? Use your crust.”

He stared at her incredulously. “Not you?”

“Who else?” She laughed again, but with a touch of bitterness. “We aren’t all like our late manger companions, you know. Or should know. Even so, you’d count yourself lucky to have Jim Baxter by your side in any real jam.  It boils down to this. Some of us have acquired veneer. Some of us haven’t. Period.”

“But how did you . . . ?” He groped for words that would not be offensive to conclude the sentence.

“How did I get into this galley? Easily enough. I started my spacefaring career as a not very competent Catering Officer in Jumbuk, one of the Sundowner Line’s more ancient and decrepit tramps. I got sick in Elsinore. Could have been my own cooking that put me in the hospital. Anyhow, I

was just about recovered when the Commission’s Epsilon Serpentis blew in-and she landed her purser with a slightly broken leg. She’d learned the hard way that the Golden Rule-stop whatever you’re doing and secure

everything when the acceleration warning sounds-is meant to be observed. The Doctor was luckier. She broke his fall . . . .” Grimes was about to ask what the Doctor and the purser had been doing, then was thankful that he had not done so. He was acutely conscious of the crimson blush that burned the skin of his face.

“You must realize,” said the girl dryly, “that merchant vessels with mixed crews are not monastic institutions. But where was I? Oh, yes. On Elsinore. Persuading the Master of the Snaky Eppy that I was a fit and proper person to take over his pursering. I managed to convince him that I was at least proper-I still can’t see what my predecessor saw in that lecherous old goat of a quack, although the Second Mate had something . . . .” Grimes felt a sudden twinge of jealousy. Anyhow, he signed me on, as soon as I agreed to waive repatriation.

“It was a long voyage; as you know, the Epsilon class ships are little better than tramps themselves. It was a long voyage, but I enjoyed it- seeing all the worlds that I’d read about and heard about and always wanted to visit. The Sundowner Line doesn’t venture far afield-just the four Rim Worlds, and now and again the Shakespearian Sector, and once in a blue moon one of the drearier planets of the Empire of Waverley. The Commission’s tramps,  of course, run everywhere.

“Anyhow, we finally berthed at Woomera. The Old Man must have put in a good report about me, because I was called before the Local Superintending Purser and offered a berth, as a junior, in one of the Alpha class liners. Alpha Centauri, if you must know. She was on the Sol-Sirius service.  Nothing very glamorous in the way of ports of call, but she was a fine ship, beautifully kept, efficiently run. A couple of years there knocked most of the sharp corners off me. After that-a spell as Assistant Purser of Beta Geminorum. Atlanta, Caribbea Carinthia and the Cluster Worlds. And then my first ship as Chief Purser. This one.”

One of Jane’s girls brought them fresh bulbs of coffee and ampoules of a sweet, potent liqueur. When she was gone Grimes asked, “Tell me, what are the Rim Worlds like?”

She waited until he had applied the flame of his lighter to the tip of her long, thin cigar, then answered, “Cold. Dark. Lonely. But . . . they have something. The feeling of being on a frontier. The frontier. The last frontier.”

“The frontier of the dark . . .” murmured Grimes.

“Yes. The frontier of the dark. And the names of our planets. They have something too. A . . . poetry? Yes, that’s the word. Lorn, Ultimo, Faraway and Thule . . . And there’s that night sky of ours, especially at some times of the year. There’s the Galaxy-a great, dim-glowing lenticulate nebula, and the rest is darkness. At other times of the year there’s only the darkness, the blackness that’s made even more intense by the sparse, faint stars that are the other Rim Suns, by the few, faint luminosities that are the distant

island universes that we shall never reach . . . .”

She shivered almost imperceptibly. “And always there’s that sense of being on the very edge of things, of hanging on by our fingernails with the abyss of the eternal night gaping beneath us. The Rim Worlders aren’t a spacefaring people; only a very few of us ever get the urge. It’s analogous, perhaps, to your Maoris-I spent a leave once in New Zealand and got interested in the history of the country. The Maoris come of seafaring stock. Their ancestors made an epic voyage from their homeland paradise to those rather grim and dreary little islands hanging there, all by themselves, in the cold and stormy Southern Ocean, lashed by frigid gales sweeping up from the Antarctic. And something-the isolation? the climate?-killed the wanderlust that was an essential part of the makeup of their race. You’ll find very few Maoris at sea-or in space-although there’s no dearth of Polynesians from the home archipelagoes aboard the surface ships serving the ports of the Pacific. And there are quite a few, too, in the Commission’s ships . . . .”

“We have our share in Survey Service,” said Grimes. “But tell me, how do you man your vessels? This Sundowner Line of yours . . .”

“There are always the drifters, the no-hopers, the castoffs from the Interstellar Transport Commission, and Trans-Galactic Clippers, and Waverley Royal Mail and all the rest of them.”

“And from the Survey Service?” The question lifted her out of her somber mood. “No,” she replied with a smile. “Not yet.”

“Not ever,” said Grimes. VI

ONCE HIS INITIAL SHYNESS HAD WORN OFF-and with it much of his Academy-induced snobbery-Grimes began to enjoy the voyage. After all, Survey Service or no Survey Service, this was a ship and he was a spaceman. He managed to accept the fact that most of the ship’s officers, even the most junior of them, were far more experienced spacemen than he was. Than he was now, he often reminded himself. At the back of his mind lurked the smug knowledge that, for all of them, a captaincy was the very limit of promotion, whereas he, one day, would be addressed in all seriousness as Jane Pentecost now addressed him in jest.

He was a frequent visitor to the control room but, remembering the Master’s admonition, was careful not to get in the way. The watch officers accepted him almost as one of themselves and were willing to initiate him into the tricky procedure of obtaining a fix with the interstellar drive in operation-an art, he was told, rather than a science.

Having obtained the permission of the Chief Engineers he prowled through the vessel’s machinery spaces, trying to supplement his theoretical knowledge of reaction, inertial and interstellar drives with something more practical. The first two, of course, were idle, and would be until the ship emerged from her warped Space-Time back into the normal continuum-but there was the Pile, the radio-active heart of the ship, and there was the auxiliary machinery that, in this tiny, man-made planet, did the work that

on a natural world is performed by winds, rivers, sunlight and gravity.

There was the Mannschenn Drive Room-and, inside this holy of holies, no man need fear to admit that he was scared by the uncanny complexity of ever-precessing gyroscopes. He stared at the tumbling rotors, the gleaming wheels that seemed always on the verge of vanishing into nothingness, that rolled down the dark dimensions, dragging the ship and all aboard her with them. He stared, hypnotized, lost in a vague, disturbing dream in which Past and Present and Future were inextricably mingled-and the Chief Interstellar Drive Engineer took him firmly by the arm and led him from the compartment. “Look at the time-twister too long,” he growled, “and you’ll be meeting yourself coming back!”

There was the “farm”-the deck of yeast- and tissue-culture vats which was no more (and no less), than a highly efficient protein factory, and the deck where stood the great, transparent globes in which algae converted the ship’s organic waste and sewage back into usable form (processed as nutriment for the yeasts and the tissue-cultures and as fertilizer for the hydroponic tanks, the biochemist was careful to explain), and the deck where luxuriant vegetation spilled over from the trays and almost barricaded the inspection walks, the source of vitamins and of flowers for the saloon tables and, at the same time, the ship’s main air-conditioning unit. Grimes said to Jane Pentecost, who had accompanied him on this tour of inspection, “You know, I envy your Captain.”

“From you, Admiral,” she scoffed, “that is something. But why?” “How can I put it? You people do the natural way what we do with

chemicals and machinery. The Captain of a warship is Captain of a warship.

Period. But your Captain Craven is absolute monarch of a little world.”

“A warship,” she told him, “is supposed to be able to go on functioning as such even with every compartment holed. A warship cannot afford to depend for the survival of her crew upon the survival of hosts of other

air-breathing organisms.”

“Straight from the book,” he said. Then, puzzled, “But for a . . .” He hesitated.

“But for a woman, or for a purser, or for a mere merchant officer I know too much,” she finished for him. “But I can read, you know. And when I was in the Sundowner Line, I, as well as all the other officers, was supposed to keep up with all the latest Survey Service publications.”

“But why?” he asked.

“But why not? We’ll have a Navy of our own, one day. Just stick around, Admiral.”

“Secession?” he inquired, making it sound like a dirty word. “Once again-why not?”

“It’d never work,” he told her.

“The history of Earth is full of secessions that did work. So is the history of

Interstellar Man. The Empire of Waverley, for example. The Duchy of Waldegren, for another-although that’s one that should have come to grief. We should all of us be a great deal happier if it had.”

“Federation policy . . .” he began.

“Policy, shmolicy! Don’t let’s be unkind to the Waldegrenese, because as long as they’re in being they exercise a restraining influence upon the Empire of Waverley and the Rim Worlds . . .” Her pace slackened. Grimes noticed that they were passing through the alleyway in which she and her staff were accommodated. She went on, “But all this talking politics is thirsty work. Come in for a couple of drinks before lunch.”

“Thank you. But, Jane”-she didn’t seem to have noticed the use of her given name-“I don’t think that either of us is qualified to criticize the handling of foreign and colonial affairs.”

“Spoken like a nice, young, well-drug-up future admiral. Oh, I know, I know. You people are trained to be the musclemen of the Federation. Yours not to reason why, yours but to do and die, and all the rest of it. But I’m a Rim Worlder-and out on the Rim you learn to think for yourself.” She slid her door open. “Come on in. This is Liberty Hall-you can spit on the mat and  call the cat a bastard.”

Her accommodation was a suite rather than a mere cabin. It was neither as large nor as well fitted as the Captain’s, but it was better than the Chief Officer’s quarters, in which Grimes had already been a guest. He looked  with interest at the holograms on the bulkhead of the sitting room. They were-but in an altogether different way-as eye-catching as Captain Craven’s had been. There was one that was almost physically chilling, that induced the feeling of utter cold and darkness and loneliness. It was the night sky  of some planet-a range of dimly seen yet sharply serrated peaks bisecting a great, pallidly glowing, lenticulate nebula. “Home, sweet home,” murmured the girl, seeing what he was looking at. “The Desolation Mountains on Faraway, with the Galactic Lens in the background.”

“And you feel homesick for that?”

“Darn right I do. Oh, not all the time. I like warmth and comfort as well as the next woman. But . . . ” She laughed. “Don’t stand around gawking-you make the place look untidy. Pull yourself into a chair and belay the buttocks.”

He did so, watching her as she busied herself at the liquor cabinet. Suddenly, in these conditions of privacy, he was acutely conscious of the womanliness of her. The rather tight and rather short shorts, as she bent away from him, left very little to the imagination. And her legs, although slender, were full where they should be full, with the muscles working smoothly under the golden skin. He felt the urge, which he sternly suppressed, to plant a kiss in the delectable hollow behind each knee. She turned suddenly. “Here! Catch!” He managed to grab the bulb that was hurtling toward his face, but a little of the wine spurted from the nipple and struck him in the right eye. When his vision cleared he saw that she was seated opposite him, was laughing (at or with him?). At, he suspected. A

real demonstration of sympathy would have consisted of tears, not laughter. Her face grew momentarily severe. “Not the mess,” she said reprovingly. “But the waste.”

Grimes examined the bulb. “I didn’t waste much. Only an eyeful.”

She raised her drink in ritual greeting. “Here’s mud in your eye,” adding, “for a change.”

“And in yours.”

In the sudden silence that followed they sat looking at each other. There was a tension, some odd resultant of centrifugal and centripetal forces. They were on the brink of something, and both of them knew it, and there was the compulsion to go forward countered by the urge to go back.

She asked tartly, “Haven’t you ever seen a woman’s legs before?”

He shifted his regard to her face, to the eyes that, somehow, were brown no longer but held the depth and the darkness of the night through which the ship was plunging.

She said, “I think you’d better finish your drink and go.” He said, “Perhaps you’re right.”

“You better believe I’m right.” She managed a smile. “I’m not an idler, like some people. I’ve work to do.”

“See you at lunch, then. And thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. It was on the house, as the little dog said. Off with you, Admiral.”

He unbuckled his lapstrap, got out of the chair and made his way to the door. When he was out of her room he did not go to his own cabin but to the bar, where he joined the Baxters. They, rather to his surprise, greeted him in a friendly manner. Rim Worlders, Grimes decided, had their good points.

IT WAS AFTER LUNCH when one of the purserettes told him that the Captain wished to see him. What have I done now? wondered Grimes-and answered his own question with the words, Nothing. Unfortunately.

Craven’s manner, when he admitted Grimes into his dayroom, was severe. “Come in, Ensign. Be seated.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You may smoke if you wish.” “Thank you, sir.”

Grimes filled and lighted his pipe; the Captain ignited one of his pungent cigars, studied the eddying coils of smoke as though they were writing a vitally important message in some strange language.

“Er, Mr. Grimes, I believe that you have been seeing a great deal of my purser, Miss Pentecost.”

“Not a great deal, sir. I’m at her table, of course.”

“I am told that she has entertained you in her quarters.”

“Just one bulb of sherry, sir. I had no idea that we were breaking ship’s regulations.”

“You were not. All the same, Mr. Grimes, I have to warn you.” “I assure you, sir, that nothing occurred between us.”

Craven permitted himself a brief, cold smile. “A ship is not a Sunday school outing-especially a ship under my command. Some Masters, I know, do expect their officers to comport themselves like Sunday school pupils, with the Captain as the principal-but I expect my senior officers to behave like intelligent and responsible adults. Miss Pentecost is quite capable of looking after herself. It is you that I’m worried about.”

“There’s no need to be worried, sir.”

The Captain laughed. “I’m not worried about your morals, Mr. Grimes. In fact, I have formed the opinion that a roll in the hay would do you far more good than harm. But Miss Pentecost is a dangerous woman. Before lifting ship, very shortly before lifting ship, I received a confidential report concerning her activities. She’s an efficient purser, a highly efficient purser, in fact, but she’s even more than that. Much more.” Again he studied the smoke from his cigar. “Unfortunately there’s no real proof, otherwise she’d not be sailing with us. Had I insisted upon her discharge I’d have been up against the Interstellar Clerical and Supply Officers’ Guild.”

“Surely not,” murmured Grimes. Craven snorted. “You people are lucky. You haven’t a mess of Guilds to deal with, each and every one of which is all too ready to rush to the defense of a Guild member, no matter what he or she is supposed to have done. As a Survey Service Captain you’ll never have to face a suit for wrongful dismissal. You’ll never be accused of victimization.”

“But what has Miss Pentecost done, sir?” asked Grimes.

“Nothing-or too damn much. You know where she comes from, don’t you? The Rim Worlds. The planets of the misfits, the rebels, the nonconformists. There’s been talk of secession of late-but even those irresponsible anarchists know full well that secession will never succeed unless they  build up their own space power. There’s the Duchy of Waldegren, which would pounce as soon as the Federation withdrew its protection. And even the Empire of Waverley might be tempted to extend its boundaries. So . . .”

“They have a merchant fleet of sorts, these Rim Worlders. The Sundowner Line. I’ve heard rumors that it’s about to be nationalized. But they have no fighting navy.”

“But what’s all this to do with Miss Pentecost, sir?”

“If what’s more than just hinted at in that confidential report is true-plenty. She’s a recruiting sergeant, no less. Any officer with whom she’s shipmates who’s disgruntled, on the verge of throwing his hand in-or on the verge of being emptied out-she’ll turn on the womanly sympathy for, and tell him that there’ll always be a job waiting out on the Rim, that the Sundowner Line is shortly going to expand, so there’ll be quick promotion and all the rest of it.”

“And what’s that to do with me, Captain? “

“Are all Survey Service ensigns as innocent as you, Mr. Grimes? Merchant officers the Rim Worlds want, and badly. Naval officers they’ll want more badly still once the balloon goes up.” Grimes permitted himself a superior smile. “It’s extremely unlikely, sir, that I shall ever want to leave the Survey Service.”

“Unlikely perhaps-but not impossible. So bear in mind what I’ve told you. I think that you’ll be able to look after yourself now that you know the score.”

“I think so too,” Grimes told him firmly. He thought, The old bastard’s been reading too many spy stories.

VII

THEY WERE DANCING.

Tables and chairs had been cleared from the ship’s saloon, and from the big, ornate playmaster throbbed the music of an orchestra so famous that even Grimes had heard of it-The Singing Drums.

They were dancing.

Some couples shuffled a sedate measure, never losing the contact between their magnetically shod feet and the polished deck. Others-daring or foolhardy-cavorted in Nul-G, gamboled fantastically but rarely gracefully in Free Fall.

They were dancing.

Ensign Grimes was trying to dance.

It was not the fault of his partner that he was making such a sorry mess of it. She, Jane Pentecost, proved the truth of the oft-made statement that spacemen and spacewomen are expert at this form of exercise. He, John Grimes, was the exception that proves the rule. He was sweating, and his feet felt at least six times their normal size. Only the fact that he was holding Jane, and closely, saved him from absolute misery.

There was a pause in the music. As it resumed Jane said, “Let’s sit this one out, Admiral.”

“If you wish to,” he replied, trying not to sound too grateful.

“That’s right. I wish to. I don’t mind losing a little toenail varnish, but I think we’ll call it a day while I still have a full set of toenails.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“So am I.” But the flicker of a smile robbed the words of their sting.

She led the way to the bar. It was deserted save for the bored and sulky girl behind the gleaming counter. “All right, Sue,” Jane told her. “You can join the revels. The Admiral and I will mind the shop.”

“Thank you, Miss Pentecost.” Sue let herself out from her little cage, vanished gracefully and rapidly in the direction of the saloon. Jane took her place.

“I like being a barmaid,” she told the ensign, taking two frosted bulbs out of the cooler.

“I’ll sign for these,” offered Grimes.

“You will not. This comes under the heading of entertaining influential customers.”

“But I’m not. Influential, I mean.”

“But you will be.” She went on dreamily. “I can see it. I can just see it. The poor old Delia O’Ryan, even more decrepit that she is now, and her poor old purser, about to undergo a fate worse than death at the hands of bloody pirates from the next Galaxy but three . . . . But all is not lost. There, light years distant, is big, fat, Grand Admiral Grimes aboard his flagship, busting a gut, to say nothing of his Mannschenn Drive unit, to rush to the rescue of his erstwhile girlfriend. ‘Dammitall,’ I can hear him muttering into his beard. ‘Dammitall. That girl used to give me free drinks when I was a snotty nosed ensign. I will repay. Full speed ahead, Gridley, and damn the torpedoes!’ “

Grimes laughed-then asked sharply, “Admiral in which service?” “What do you mean, John?” She eyed him warily.

“You know what I mean.”

“So . . .” she murmured. “So . . . I know that you had another home truth session with the Bearded Bastard. I can guess what it was about.”

“And is it true?” demanded Grimes.

“Am I Olga Popovsky, the Beautiful Spy? Is that what you mean?” “More or less.”

“Come off it, John. How the hell can I be a secret agent for a non-existent government?”

“You can be a secret agent for a subversive organization.”

“What is this? Is it a hangover from some half-baked and half-understood course in counterespionage?”

“There was a course of sorts,” he admitted. “I didn’t take much interest in it. At the time.”

“And now you wish that you had. Poor John.”

“But it wasn’t espionage that the Old Man had against you. He had some sort of story about your acting as a sort of recruiting sergeant, luring officers away from the Commission’s ships to that crumby little rabble of star tramps calling itself the Sundowner Line . . . .”

She didn’t seem to be listening to him, but was giving her attention instead to the music that drifted from the saloon. It was one of the old, Twentieth Century melodies that were enjoying a revival. She began to sing in time to it.

“Goodbye, I’ll run  To seek another sun Where I May find

There are hearts more kind Than the ones left behind . . .”

She smiled somberly and asked, “Does that answer your question?” “Don’t talk in riddles,” he said roughly.

“Riddles? Perhaps-but not very hard ones. That, John, is a sort of song of farewell from a very old comic opera. As I recall it, the guy singing it was going to shoot through and join the French Foreign Legion. (But there’s no French Foreign Legion anymore . . . .) We, out on the Rim, have tacked our own words on to it. It’s become almost a national anthem to the Rim Runners, as the people who man our ships-such as they are-are already calling themselves.

“There’s no French Foreign Legion anymore-but the misfits and the failures have to have somewhere to go. I haven’t lured anybody away from this service-but now and again I’ve shipped with officers who’ve been on the point of getting out, or being emptied out, and when they’ve cried into my beer I’ve given them advice. Of course, I’ve a certain natural bias in favor of my own home world. If I were Sirian born I’d be singing the praises of the Dog Star Line.”

“Even so,” he persisted, “your conduct seems to have been somewhat suspect.”

“Has it? And how? To begin with, you are not an officer in this employ. And if you were, I should challenge you to find anything in the Commission’s regulations forbidding me to act as I have been doing.”

“Captain Craven warned me,” said Grimes.

“Did he, now? That’s his privilege. I suppose that he thinks that it’s also his duty. I suppose he has the idea that I offered you admiral’s rank in the Rim Worlds Navy as soon as we secede. If we had our own Navy-which we don’t-we might just take you in as Ensign, Acting, Probationary.”

“Thank you.”

She put her elbows on the bar counter, propping her face between her hands, somehow conveying the illusion of gravitational pull, looking up at him. “I’ll be frank with you, John. I admit that we do take the no-hopers, the drunks and the drifters into our merchant fleet. I know far better than you what a helluva difference there is between those rustbuckets and the well-found, well-run ships of the Commission and, come to that,

Trans-Galactic Clippers and Waverley Royal Mail. But when we do start some kind of a Navy we shall want better material. Much better. We shall want highly competent officers who yet, somehow, will have the Rim World outlook. The first batch, of course, will have to be outsiders, to tide us over until our own training program is well under way.”

“And I don’t qualify?” he asked stiffly.

“Frankly, no. I’ve been watching you. You’re too much of a stickler for rules and regulations, especially the more stupid ones. Look at the way you’re dressed now, for example. Evening wear, civilian, junior officers, for the use of. No individuality. You might as well be in uniform. Better, in fact. There’d be some touch of brightness.”

“Go on.”

“And the way you comport yourself with women. Stiff. Starchy. Correct. And you’re all too conscious of the fact that I, even though I’m a mere merchant officer, and a clerical branch at that, put up more gold braid than you do. I noticed that especially when we were dancing. I was having to lead all the time.”

He said defensively, “I’m not a very good dancer.”

“You can say that again.” She smiled briefly. “So there you have it, John. You can tell the Bearded Bastard, when you see him again, that you’re quite safe from my wiles. I’ve no doubt that you’ll go far in your own Service-but you just aren’t Rim Worlds material.”

“I shouldn’t have felt all that flattered if you’d said that I was,” he told her bluntly-but he knew that he was lying.

VIII

“YES?” JANE WAS SAYING. “Yes, Mr. Letourneau?”

Grimes realized that she was not looking at him, that she was looking past him and addressing a newcomer. He turned around to see who it was. He found-somehow the name hadn’t registered-that it was the Psionic Radio Officer, a tall, pale, untidily put together young man in a slovenly uniform. He looked scared-but that was his habitual expression, Grimes remembered. They were an odd breed, these trained telepaths with their Rhine Institute diplomas, and they were not popular, but they were the only means whereby ships and shore stations could communicate instantaneously over the long light years. In the Survey Service they were referred to, slightingly, as Commissioned Teacup Readers. In the Survey Service and in the Merchant Service they were referred to as Snoopers. But

they were a very necessary evil. “Yes, Mr. Letourneau?”

“Where’s the Old Man? He’s not in his quarters.”

“The Master”-Jane emphasized the title-“is in the saloon.” Then, a little maliciously, “Couldn’t you have used your crystal ball?”

Letourneau flushed. “You know very well, Miss Pentecost, that we have to take an oath that we will always respect the mental privacy of our shipmates . . . . But I must find him. Quickly.”

“Help yourself. He’s treading the light fantastic in there.” When he was gone she said, “Typical. Just typical. If it were a real emergency he could get B.B. on the intercom. But no. Not him. He has to parade his distrust of anything electronic and, at the same time, make it quite clear that he’s not breaking his precious oath . . . . Tell me, how do you people handle your spaceborne espers?”

He grinned. “We’ve still one big stick that you people haven’t. A court martial followed by a firing party. Not that I’ve ever seen it used.”

“Hardly, considering that you’ve only been in Space a dog watch.” Her face froze suddenly. “Yes, Sue?”

It was the girl whom Jane had relieved in the bar. “Miss Pentecost, will you report to the Captain in Control, please. At once.”

“What have I done now?”

“It’s some sort of emergency, Miss Pentecost. The Chief Officer’s up there with him, and he’s sent for the Doctor and the two Chief Engineers.”

“Then I must away, John. Look after the bar again, Sue. Don’t let the Admiral have too many free drinks.”

She moved fast and gracefully, was gone before Grimes could think of any suitable repartee. He said to the girl, “What is happening, Sue?”

“I don’t know, Ad-” She flushed. “Sorry, Ensign. And, in any case, I’m not supposed to talk to the passengers about it.”

“But I’m not a real passenger,” he said-and asked himself, Am I a real anything?

“No, I suppose you’re not, Mr. Grimes. But you’re not on duty.”

“An officer of the Survey Service is always on duty,” he told her, with some degree of truth. “Whatever happens on the spacelanes is our concern.” It sounded good.

“Yes,” she agreed hesitantly. “That’s what my fianc‚-he’s a Lieutenant J.G.-is always telling me.”

“So what’s all the flap about?”

“Promise not to tell anybody?” “Of course.”

“Mr. Letourneau came wandering into the Saloon. He just stood there staring about, the way he does, then he spotted the Captain. He was actually dancing with me at the time . . . .” She smiled reminiscently, and added, “He’s a very good dancer.”

“He would be. But go on.”

“He came charging across the dance floor-Mr. Letourneau, I mean. He didn’t care whose toes he trod on or who he tripped over. I couldn’t help overhearing when he started babbling away to Captain Craven. It’s a distress call. From one of our ships-Epsilon Sextans.'” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And it’s piracy.”

“Piracy?  Impossible.”

“But, Mr. Grimes, it’s what he said.”

“Psionic Radio Officers have been known to go around the bend before now,” Grimes told her, “and to send false alarm calls. And to receive non-existent ones.”

“But the Sexy Eppy-sorry, Epsilon Sextans-has a cargo that’d be worth pirating. Or so I heard. The first big shipment of Antigeriatridine to Waverly

. . . .”

Antigeriatridine, the so-called Immortality Serum. Manufactured in limited, but increasing quantities only on Marina (often called by its colonists Submarina), a cold, unpleasantly watery world in orbit about Alpha Crucis. The fishlike creatures from which the drug was obtained bred and flourished only in the seas of their own world.

But piracy . . . .

But the old legends were full of stories of men who had sold their souls for eternal youth.

The telephone behind the bar buzzed sharply. Sue answered it. She said, “It’s for you, Mr. Grimes.”

Grimes took the instrument. “That you, Ensign?” It was Captain Craven’s voice. “Thought I’d find you there. Come up to Control, will you?” It was an order rather than a request.

ALL THE SHIP’S EXECUTIVE OFFICERS were in the Control Room, and the Doctor, the purser and the two Chief Engineers. As Grimes emerged from the hatch he heard Kennedy, the Mate, say, “Here’s the Ensign now.”

“Good. Then dog down, Mr. Kennedy, so we get some privacy.” Craven turned to Grimes. ‘”You’re on the Active List of the Survey Service, Mister,  so I suppose you’re entitled to know what’s going on. The situation is this. Epsilon Sextans, Marina to Waverley with a shipment of Antigeriatridine, has been pirated.” Grimes managed, with an effort, to refrain from saying “I

know.” Craven went on. “Her esper is among the survivors. He says that the pirates were two frigates of the Waldegren Navy. Anyhow, the Interstellar Drive Engineers aboard Epsilon Sextans managed to put their box of tricks on random precession, and they got away. But not in one piece . . . .”

“Not in one piece?” echoed Grimes stupidly.

“What the hell do you expect when an unarmed merchantman is fired upon, without warning, by two warships? The esper says that their Control has had it, and all the accommodation spaces. By some miracle the Psionic Radio Officer’s shack wasn’t holed, and neither was the Mannschenn Drive Room.”

“But even one missile . . .” muttered Grimes.

“If you want to capture a ship and her cargo more or less intact,” snapped Craven, “you don’t use missiles. You use laser. It’s an ideal weapon if you aren’t fussy about how many people you kill.”

“Knowing the Waldegrenese as we do,” said Jane Pentecost bitterly, “there wouldn’t have been any survivors anyhow.”

“Be quiet!” roared Craven. Grimes was puzzled by his outburst. It was out  of character. True, he could hardly expect a shipmaster to react to the news of a vicious piracy with equanimity-but this shipmaster was an officer of the Reserve, had seen service in warships and had been highly decorated for outstanding bravery in battle.

Craven had control of himself again. “The situation is this. There are people still living aboard Epsilon Sextans. Even though all her navigators have  been killed I think that I shall be able to find her in time. Furthermore, she has a very valuable cargo and, in any case, cannot be written off as a total loss. There is little damage that cannot be repaired by welded patches. I have already sent a message to Head Office requesting a free hand. I have salvage in mind. I see no reason why the ship and her cargo should not be taken on to Waverley.”

“A prize crew, sir?”

“If you care to put it that way. This will mean cutting down the number of officers aboard my own vessel-but I am sure, Mr. Grimes, that you will be willing to gain some practical watch-keeping experience. All that’s required is your autograph on the ship’s Articles of Agreement.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. I may be thanking you before the job’s over and done.” He turned to his Chief Officer. “Mr. Kennedy, keep in touch with Mr. Letourneau and let me know if anything further comes through either from Epsilon Sextans or from Head Office. The rest of you-keep this to yourselves. No sense in alarming the passengers. I’m sure that the Doctor and Miss Pentecost between them can concoct some soothing story to account for  this officers’ conference.”

“Captain Craven,” said Jane Pentecost.

“Well?”

“The other man at my table, Mr. Baxter. I knew him out on the Rim. He holds Chief Reaction Drive Engineer’s papers.”

“Don’t tell him anything yet. But I’ll keep him in mind. Now, Mr. Grimes, will you join me in my day cabin?”

IX

THE HOLOGRAMS were all gone from the bulkheads of Captain Craven’s cabin. To replace them there was just one picture-of a woman, not young, but with the facial bone structure that defies age and time. She was in uniform, and on her shoulderboards were the two and a half stripes of a Senior Purser. The shipmaster noticed Grimes’ interest and said briefly and bitterly. “She was too senior for an Epsilon class ship-but she cut her leave short, just to oblige, when the regular purser went sick. She should have been back on Earth at the same time as me, though. Then we were going to get married . . . .”

Grimes said nothing. He thought, Too senior for an Epsilon class ship? Epsilon Sextans, for example? What could he say?

“And that,” said Craven savagely, “was that.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” blurted Grimes, conscious of the inadequacy of his words. Then, foolishly, “But there are survivors, sir.”

“Don’t you think that I haven’t got Letourneau and his opposite number checking? And have you ever seen the aftermath of a Deep Space battle, Mister? Have you ever boarded a ship that’s been slashed and stabbed to death with laser beams?” He seemed to require no answer; he pulled himself into the chair by his desk, strapped himself in and motioned to Grimes to be seated. Then he pulled out from a drawer a large sheet of paper, which he unfolded. It was a cargo plan. “Current voyage,” he grunted. “And we’re carrying more to Lindisfarne than one brand-new ensign.”

“Such as, sir?” ventured Grimes.

“Naval stores. I don’t mind admitting that I’m more than a little rusty insofar as Survey Service procedure is concerned, even though I still hold my Reserve Commission. You’re more familiar with fancy abbreviations than I am. Twenty cases RERAT, for example . . . .”

“Reserve rations, sir. Canned and dehydrated.” “Good. And ATREG?”

“Atmospheric regeneration units, complete.”

“So if Epsilon Sextans’ ‘farm’ has been killed we shall be able to manage?” “Yes, sir.”

“Do you think you’d be able to install an ATREG unit?”

“Of course, sir. They’re very simple, as you know. Just synthetic chlorophyll and a UV source . . . . In any case, there are full instructions inside every container.”

“And this? A double M, Mark XV?” “Anti-Missile  Missile.”

“And ALGE?”

“Anti-Laser Gas Emitter.”

“The things they do think of. I feel more at home with these AVMs-although I see that they’ve got as far as Mark XVII now.”

“Anti-Vessel Missiles,” said Grimes. A slight enthusiasm crept into his voice. “The XVII’s a real honey.”

“What does it do?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Even though you are a Reserve Officer, I can’t tell you.” “But they’re effective?”

“Yes. Very.”

“And I think you’re Gunnery Branch, Mr. Grimes, aren’t you?”

“I am sir.” He added hastily, “But I’m still quite capable of carrying out a watch officer’s duties aboard this vessel should the need arise.”

“The main thing is, you’re familiar with naval stores and equipment. When we find and board Epsilon Sextans I shall be transshipping certain items of cargo . . . “

“RERAT and ATREG, sir?” “Yes. And the others.”

“But, sir, I can’t allow it. Not unless I have authority from the Flag Officer commanding Lindisfarne Base. As soon as your Mr. Letourneau can be spared I’ll get him to try and raise the station there.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Mr. Grimes. In view of the rather peculiar political situation, I think that the answer would be No. Even if it were ‘Yes’, you know as well as I how sluggishly the tide flows through official channels. Furthermore, just in case it has escaped your notice, I am the Master.”

“And I, sir, represent the Survey Service. As the only commissioned officer aboard this vessel I am responsible for Survey Service cargo.”

“As a Reserve Officer, Mr. Grimes, I rank you.”

“Only when you have been recalled to Active Service. Sir.”

Craven said, “I was rather afraid that you’d take this attitude. That’s why I

decided to get this interview over and done with, just so we all know where we stand.” He put away the cargo plan, swiveled his chair so that he could reach out to his liquor cabinet. He pulled out two bulbs, tossed one to Grimes. “No toasts. If we drank to Law and Order we should mean different things. So just drink. And listen.

“To begin with, Epsilon Sextans doesn’t know where she is. But Letourneau is one of the rare telepaths with the direction finding talent, and as soon as he’s able to get lined up we shall alter course to home on the wreck. That’s what he’s trying to do now.

“When we find her, we shall synchronize and board, of course. The first thing will be medical aid to the survivors. Then we patch the ship up. And then we arm her. And then, with a prize crew under myself, we put ourselves on the trajectory for Waverley-hoping that those Waldegrenese frigates come back for another nibble.”

“They’d never dare, sir.”

“Wouldn’t they? The original piracy they’ll try to laugh off by saying that it was by real pirates- no, that’s not quite right, but you know what I

mean-wearing Waldegren colors. The second piracy-they’ll make sure that there are no survivors.”

“But I still can’t see how they can hope to get away with it. It’s always been an accepted fact that the main weapon against piracy has been psionic radio.”

“And so it was-until some genius developed a jamming technique. Epsilon Sextans wasn’t able to get any messages out until her crazy random precession pulled her well clear.”

“And you hope, sir, that they do attack you?”

“I do, Mr. Grimes. I had hoped, that I should have a good gunnery officer under me, but”-he shrugged his massive shoulders-“I think that I shall be able to manage.”

“And you hope that you’ll have your weapons,” persisted Grimes. “I see no reason why I should not, Ensign.”

“There is one very good reason, sir. That is that I, a commissioned officer of the Survey Service, am aboard your vessel. I insist that you leave the tracking down and destruction of the pirates to the proper authorities. I insist, too, that no Survey Service stores be discharged from this ship without my written authority.”

For the first time the hint of a smile relieved the somberness of Craven’s face. “And to think that I believed that Jane Pentecost could recruit you,” he murmured. Then, in a louder voice, “And what if I just go ahead without your written authority, Ensign?”

Grimes had the answer ready. “Then, sir, I shall be obliged to order your officers not to obey your unlawful commands. If necessary, I shall call upon the male passengers to assist me in any action that is necessary.”

Craven’s bushy eyebrows went up and stayed up. “Mr. Grimes,” he said in a gritty voice, “it is indeed lucky for you that I have firsthand experience of the typical Survey Service mentality. Some Masters I know would, in these circumstances, send you out on a spacewalk without a suit. But, before I take drastic action, I’ll give you one more chance to cooperate.” His tone softened. “You noticed the portrait I’ve put up instead of all the temporary popsies. Every man, no matter how much he plays around, has one woman who is the woman. Gillian was the woman as far as I was concerned-as far as I am concerned. I’ve a chance to bring her murderers under my guns-and, by God, I’m taking that chance, no matter what it means either to my  career or to the somewhat odd foreign policy of the Federation. I used to be annoyed by Jane Pentecost’s outbursts on that subject-but now I see that she’s right. And she’s right, too, when it comes to the Survey Service’s reluctance to take action against Waldegren.

“So I, Mr. Grimes, am taking action.” “Sir, I forbid you . . .”

“You forbid me? Ensign, you forget yourself. Perhaps this will help you remember.”

This was a Minetti automatic that had appeared suddenly in the Captain’s hand. In his hairy fist the little, glittering weapon looked no more than a toy-but Grimes knew his firearms, knew that at the slightest pressure of Craven’s finger the needle-like projectiles would stitch him from crown to crotch.

“I’m sorry about this, Mr. Grimes.” As he spoke, Craven pressed a button  set in his desk with his free hand. “I’m sorry about this. But I realize that I was expecting rather too much of you. After all, you have your career to consider . . . . Time was,” he went on, “when a naval officer could put his telescope to his blind eye as an excuse for ignoring orders-and get away with it. But the politicians had less power in those days. We’ve come a long way-and a wrong way-since Nelson.”

Grimes heard the door behind him slide open. He didn’t bother to look around, not even when hard hands were laid on his shoulders.

“Mr. Kennedy,” said Craven, “things turned out as I feared that they would. Will you and Mr. Ludovic take the Ensign along to the Detention Cell?”

“I’ll see you on trial for piracy, Captain!” flared Grimes.

“An interesting legal point, Ensign-especially since you are being entered in my Official Log as a mutineer.”

X

THE DETENTION CELL was not uncomfortable, but it was depressing. It was a padded cell- passengers in spacecraft have been known to exhibit the more violent symptoms of mania-which detracted from its already inconsiderable cheerfulness if not from its comfort. However, Grimes was not mad-not in the medical sense, that is-and so was considered able to attend to his own bodily needs. The little toilet was open to him, and at

regular intervals a bell would sound and a container of food would appear in a hatch recessed into the bulkhead of the living cabin. There was reading matter too-such as it was. The Ensign suspected that Jane Pentecost was the donor. It consisted of pamphlets published by some organization calling itself The Rim Worlds Secessionist Party. The almost hysterical calls to arms were bad enough-but the ones consisting mainly of columns of statistics were worse. Economics had never been Grimes’ strong point.

He slept, he fed at the appointed times, he made a lengthy ritual of keeping himself clean, he tried to read-and, all the time, with only sounds and sensations as clues, he endeavored to maintain a running plot of the ship’s maneuvers.

Quite early there had been the shutting down of the Mannschenn Drive, and the consequent fleeting sensation of temporal disorientation. This had been followed by the acceleration warning-the cell had an intercom speaker recessed in the padding-and Grimes, although it seemed rather pointless in his sponge rubber environment, had strapped himself into his couch. He heard the directional gyroscopes start up, felt the effects of centrifugal  force as the ship came around to her new heading. Then there was the pseudo-gravity of acceleration, accompanied by the muffled thunder of the reaction drive. It was obvious, thought the Ensign, that Captain Craven was expending his reaction mass in a manner that, in other circumstances,  would have been considered reckless.

Suddenly-silence and Free Fall, and almost immediately the off-key keening of the Mannschenn Drive. Its note was higher, much higher, than Grimes remembered it, and the queasy feeling of temporal disorientation lasted much longer than it had on previous occasions. And that, for a long time, was all. Meals came, and were eaten. Every morning- according to his watch-the prisoner showered and applied depilatory cream to his face. He tried to exercise-but to exercise in a padded cell, with no apparatus, in Free Fall, is hard. He tried to read-but the literature available was hardly more interesting to him than a telephone directory would have been. And, even though he never had been gregarious, the lack of anybody to talk to was wearing him down.

It was a welcome break from the monotony when he realized that, once again, the ship was maneuvering. This time there was no use of the directional gyroscopes; there were no rocket blasts, but there was a variation of the whine of the Drive as it hunted, hunted, as the temporal precession rate was adjusted by tens of seconds, by seconds, by microseconds.

And then it locked.

The ship shuddered slightly-once, twice.

Grimes envisaged the firing of the two mooring rockets, one from the bow and one from the stern, each with the powerful electromagnet in its nose, each trailing its fathoms of fine but enormously strong cable. Merchant vessels, he knew, carried this equipment, but unlike naval ships rarely used it. But Craven, as a Reservist, would have seen and taken part in enough drills.

The ship shuddered again-heavily.

So the rendezvous had been made. So Delta Orionis and Epsilon Sextans, their Drives synchronized, bound together by the rescue ship’s cables, were now falling as one unit through the dark immensities.

So the rendezvous had been made-and already the survivors of the wreck were being brought aboard the Delia O’Ryan, were being helped out of their stinking spacesuits, were blurting out their story to Craven and his officers. Grimes could visualize it all, almost as clearly as though he were actually watching it. He could visualize, too, the engineers swarming over the wreck, the flare of their burning and welding torches, the cannibalizing of nonessential plating from the ship’s structure for hull patches. It was all laid down in the Survey Service’s Damage Control Manual-and Captain Craven, at least, would know that book as thoroughly as did Grimes.

And what of the cargo, the Survey Service stores, Grimes’ stores? A trembling in the ship’s structure, a barely felt vibration, told him that gantries and conveyor belts were being brought into operation. There would be no great handling problems. Lindisfarne was Delta Orionis’ first port of call, and the Survey Service consignment would be top stowage. But there was nothing that Grimes could do about it-not a thing. In fact, he was beginning to doubt the legality of the stand he had made against the Master. And he was the small frog in this small puddle, while Captain Craven had made it quite clear that he was the big frog. Grimes wished  that he was better versed in astronautical law-although a professional lawyer’s knowledge would be of no use to him in his present situation.

So, with some hazy idea that he might need all his strength, both mental and physical, for what was to befall him (but what?), in the near future, he strapped himself into his bunk and did his best to forget his worries in sleep. He was well enough acquainted with the psychiatrists’ jargon to know that this was no more than a return to the womb but, before dropping off into a shallow slumber, shrugged, So what?

HE JERKED into sudden wakefulness.

Jane Pentecost was there by his bunk, looking down at him.

“Come in,” he said. “Don’t bother to knock. Now you see how the poor live. This is Liberty Hall; you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard.”

She said, “That’s not very funny.”

“I know it’s not. Even the first time that I heard it aboard this blasted ship I was able to refrain from rolling in the aisles.”

She said, “There’s no need to be so bitchy, John.”

“Isn’t there? Wouldn’t you be bitchy if you’d been thrown into this padded cell?”

“I suppose I would be. But you asked for it, didn’t you?”

“If doing my duty-or trying to do my duty-is asking for it, I suppose that I did. Well-and has our pirate Captain cast off yet, armed to the teeth with

the weapons he’s stolen?”

“No. The weapons are still being mounted. But let’s not argue legalities, John. There’s not enough time. I . . . I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” he echoed.

“Yes. Somebody has to do the cooking aboard Epsilon Sextans-and I volunteered.”

“You?”

“And why the hell not?” she flared. “Captain Craven has been pushed over to our side of the fence, and it’d be a pretty poor show if we Rim Worlders weren’t prepared to stand by him. Baxter’s gone across to take over as Reaction Drive Engineer; the only survivor in that department was the Fourth, and he’s only a dog watch in Space.”

“And who else?”

“Nobody. The Sexy Eppy’s Chief, Second and Third Interstellar Drive Engineers survived, and they’re willing-anxious, in fact, now that their ship’s being armed-to stay on. And the Psionic Radio Officer came through, and is staying on. All of our executive officers volunteered, of course, but the Old Man turned them down. He said that, after all, he could not hazard the safety of this ship by stripping her of her trained personnel. Especially since we carry passengers.”

“That’s his worry,” said Grimes without much sympathy. “But how does he hope to fight his ship if those frigates pounce again?”

“He thinks, he’ll be able to manage-with remote controls for every weapon brought to his main control panel.”

“Possible,” admitted Grimes, his professional interest stirred. “But not very efficient. In a naval action the Captain has his hands full just handling the ship alone, without trying to control her weaponry.”

“And you’d know, of course.” “Yes.”

“Yes, you’ve read the books. And Captain Craven commanded a light cruiser during that trouble with the Dring, so he knows nothing.”

“He still hasn’t got four hands and two heads.”

“Oh, let’s stop talking rubbish,” she cried. “I probably shan’t see you again, John and . . . and . . . oh, hell, I want to say goodbye properly, and I don’t want you to think too badly about either the Old Man or . . . or myself.”

“So what are we supposed to do about it?”

“Damn you, Grimes, you snotty-nosed, stuck-up spacepuppy! Look after yourself!”

Suddenly she bent down to kiss him. It was intended to be no more than a

light brushing of lips, but Grimes was suddenly aware, with his entire body, of the closeness of her, of the warmth and the scent of her, and almost without volition his arms went about her, drawing her closer still to him. She tried to break away, but it was only a halfhearted effort. He heard her murmur, in an odd, sardonic whisper, “wotthehell, wotthehell,” and then, “toujours gai.” It made no sense at the time but, years later, when he made the acquaintance of the Twentieth Century poets, he was to remember and to understand. What was important now was that her own arms were about him.

Somehow the buttons of her uniform shirt had come undone, and her  nipples were taut against Grimes’ bare chest. Somehow her shorts had been peeled away from her hips-unzippered by whom? and how?-and somehow Grimes’ own garments were no longer the last barrier between them.

He was familiar enough with female nudity; he was one of the great majority who frequented the naked beaches in preference to those upon which bathing costumes were compulsory. He knew what a naked woman looked like-but this was different. It was not the first time that he had kissed a woman-but it was the first time that he had kissed, and been kissed by, an unclothed one. It was the first time that he had been alone with one.

What was happening he had read about often enough-and, like most young men, he had seen his share of pornographic films. But this was different. This was happening to him.

And for the first time.

When it was over, when, still clasped in each others’ arms they drifted in the center of the little cabin, impelled there by some odd resultant of forces, their discarded clothing drifting with them, veiling their perspiration-moist bodies, Grimes was reluctant to let her go.

Gently, Jane tried to disengage herself.

She whispered, “That was a warmer goodbye that I intended. But I’m not sorry. No. I’m not sorry . . . .”

Then, barely audibly, “It was the first time for you, wasn’t it?” “Yes.”

“Then I’m all the more glad it happened. But this is goodbye.” “No.”

“Don’t be a fool, John. You can’t keep me here.” “But I can come with you.”

She pushed him from her. Somehow he landed back on the bed. Before he could bounce he automatically snapped one of the confining straps about his middle. Somehow-she was still wearing her sandals but nothing

else-she finished up standing on the deck, held there by the contact between the magnetic soles and the ferrous fibers in the padding. She put

out a long, graceful arm and caught her shirt. She said harshly, “I’m getting dressed and out of here. You stay put. Damn you, Grimes, for thinking that I was trying to lure you aboard the Sexy Eppy with the body beautiful. I told you before that I am not, repeat not, Olga Popovsky, the Beautiful Spy. And I’m not a prostitute. There’s one thing I wouldn’t sell if I were offered the services of the finest Gunnery Officer (which you aren’t), in the whole bloody Galaxy in payment!”

“You’re beautiful when you flare up like that,” said Grimes sincerely. “But you’re always beautiful.” Then, in a louder voice, “Jane, I love you.”

“Puppy love,” she sneered. “And I’m old enough to be your . . .” A faint smile softened her mouth. “Your maiden aunt.”

“Let me finish. All right, it’s only puppy love-you say. But it’s still love.

But”-he was extemporizing-convincingly, he hoped-“but my real reason for wanting to come with you is this. I can appreciate now what Captain Craven lost when Epsilon Sextans was pirated. I can see-I can feel-why he’s willing to risk his life and his career to get his revenge. And I think that it’s worth it. And I want to help him.”

She stood there, her shirt half on, eying him suspiciously. “You mean that? You really mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a liar, Grimes.”

“No,” he said slowly. “No. Not altogether. I want to help the Old Man-and I want to help you. This piracy has convinced me that you Rim Worlders are getting the dirty end of the stick. I may not be the finest Gunnery Officer in the whole Galaxy-but I’m better acquainted with the new stuff than Captain Craven is.”

Her grin was openly derisive. “First it’s fellow-feeling for another spaceman, then it’s international politics. What next?”

“Where we started. I do love you, Jane. And if there’s going to be any shooting, I want to be on hand to do the shooting back on your behalf. I’ll admit that . . . that what’s happened has influenced my decision. But you didn’t buy me, or bribe me. Don’t think that. Don’t ever think that.” There was a note of pleading in his voice. “Be realistic, Jane. With another officer along, especially an officer with recent gunnery training, you stand a damn sight better chance than you would otherwise.”

“I . . . I suppose so. But I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to. But why look a gift horse in the mouth?”

“All right. You win. Get your clothes on and come and see the Old Man.” XI

JANE PENTECOST led Grimes to the airlock. The ship seemed oddly deserted, and he remarked on this. The girl explained that the passengers had been requested to remain in their accommodations, and that most of

Delta Orionis’ personnel were employed in work aboard Epsilon Sextans.

  • So I haven’t been the only one to be kept under lock and key,” commented Grimes sardonically.

“You’re the only one,” retorted the girl, “who’s been compensated for his imprisonment.”

There was no answer to that, so the Ensign remained silent. Saying nothing, he inspected with interest the temporary tunnel that had been rigged between the airlocks of the two ships. So Epsilon Sextans’ pressure hull had been made good, her atmosphere restored. That meant that the work of installing the armament had been completed. He hoped that he would not have to insist upon modifications.

The wreck-although she was a wreck no longer-bore her scars. The worst damage had been repaired, but holes and slashes that did not impair her structural strength were untouched, and spatters of once molten metal still made crazy patterns on beams and frames, stanchions and bulkheads. And there were the scars made by Craven’s engineers-the raw, bright cicatrices of new welding.

Forward they made their way, deck after deck. The elevator in the axial shaft was not yet working, so Grimes had time and opportunity to appreciate the extent of the damage. They passed through the wreckage of the “farm”-the burst algae tanks, the ruptured vats in which yeast and tissue cultures were black and dead, frostbitten and dehydrated. They brushed through alleyways choked with the brittle fronds of creeping plants killed by the ultimate winter.

And then they were passing through the accommodation levels. Bulkheads had been slashed through, destroying the privacy of the cabins that they had once enclosed. Destroying the privacy-and the occupants. There were  no longer any bodies; for this Grimes was deeply thankful. (He learned later that Craven’s first action had been to order and conduct a funeral service.) There were no bodies-but there were still stains. Men and women die quickly in hard vacuum-quickly and messily.

Captain Craven was alone in the Control Room. He was working, rather slowly and clumsily, wiring up an obviously makeshift panel that was additional to the original one installed before the Master’s acceleration chair. It was obvious what it was-the remote controls for the newly fitted weaponry. Grimes said quickly, “There’s no need for that, sir.”

Craven started, let go of his screwdriver, made a fumbling grab for it as it drifted away from him. He stared at Grimes, then growled, “So it’s you, is it?” Then, to Jane, “What the hell do you mean by letting this puppy out of his kennel?”

“Captain Craven,” she told him quietly, “Mr. Grimes wants to come with us.” “What? I warn you, Miss Pentecost, I’m in no mood for silly jokes.”

“This is not a silly joke, Captain,” said Grimes. “I’ve had time to think things over. I feel, I really feel that you have a far better chance if there’s

a qualified officer along to handle the gunnery.”

Craven looked at them, from the girl to Grimes, then back again. He said, “Ensign, didn’t I warn you?”

“It’s not that way at all, sir,” Grimes told him, flushing. “In fact, Miss Pentecost has been trying hard to dissuade me.”

“Oh?

“It’s true,” said Jane. “But he told me that we couldn’t afford to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“I don’t know what’s been happening,” rasped Craven. “I don’t want to know what’s been happening between the pair of you. This change of mind, this change of heart is rather . . . sudden. No matter. One volunteer, they say,  is worth ten pressed men.” He glared coldly at the Ensign. “And you volunteer?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I believe you. I have no choice in the matter. But you realize the consequences?”

“I do.”

“Well, I may be able to do something to clear your yardarm. I’ve still to make my last entries in the Official Log of Delta Orionis, before I hand over to Captain Kennedy. And when it comes to such documentation, nobody cares to accuse a shipmaster of being a liar. Not out loud.” He paused, thinking. “How does this sound, Miss Pentecost? Date, Time, Position, etc., etc. Mr. John Grimes, passenger, holding the rank of Ensign in the Federation Survey Service, removed by force from this vessel to Epsilon Sextans, there to supervise the installation and mounting of the armament, Survey Service property, discharged on my orders from No. 1 hold, also to advise upon the use of same in the subsequent event of an action’s being fought. Signed, etc., etc. And witnessed.”

“Rather long-winded, sir. But it seems to cover the ground.” “I intend to do more than advise!” flared Grimes.

“Pipe down. Or, if you must say it, make sure that there aren’t any witnesses around when you say it. Now, when it comes to the original supervision, you see what I’m trying to do. Will it work?”

“After a fashion, sir. But it will work much better if the fire control panel is entirely separate from maneuvering control.”

“You don’t think that I could handle both at once?”

“You could. But not with optimum efficiency. No humanoid could. This setup of yours might just work if we were Shaara, or any of the other multi-limbed arthropods. But even the Shaara, in their warships, don’t expect the

Queen-Captain to handle her ship and her guns simultaneously.”

“You’re the expert. I just want to be sure that you’re prepared to, quote, advise, unquote, with your little pink paws on the actual keyboard of your battle organ.”

“That’s just the way that I propose to advise.”

“Good. Fix it up to suit yourself, then. I should be able to let you have a mechanic shortly to give you a hand.”

“Before we go any further, sir, I’d like to make an inspection of the weapons themselves. Just in case . . .”

“Just in case I’ve made some fantastic bollix, eh?” Craven was almost cheerful. “Very good. But try to make it snappy. It’s time we were on our way.”

“Yes,” said Jane, and it seemed that the Captain’s discarded somberness was hanging about her like a cloud. “It’s time.”

XII

AT ONE TIME, before differentiation between the mercantile and the  fighting vessel became pronounced, merchant vessels were built to carry a quite considerable armament. Today, the mounting of weapons on a merchantman presents its problems. After his tour of inspection Grimes was obliged to admit that Captain Craven had made cunning use of whatever spaces were available- but Craven, of course, was a very experienced officer, with long years of service in all classes of spacecraft. Too-and, perhaps, luckily-there had been no cannon among the Survey Service ordnance that had been requisitioned, so recoil had not been among the problems.

When he was finished, Grimes returned to the Control Room. Craven was still there, and with him was Jane Pentecost. They had, obviously, been discussing something. They could, perhaps, have been quarreling; the girl’s face was flushed and her expression sullen.

“Yes?” snapped the Captain.

“You’ve done a good job, sir. She’s no cruiser, but she should be able to defend herself.”

“Thank you. Then we’ll be on our way.”

“Not so fast, sir. I’d like to wire up my control panel properly before we shove off.”

Craven laughed. “You’ll have time, Mr. Grimes. I still have a few last duties to discharge aboard Delta Orionis. But be as quick as you can.”

He left the compartment, followed by Jane Pentecost. She said, over her shoulder, “I’ll send Mr. Baxter to help you, John.”

The Rim Worlder must have been somewhere handy; in a matter of seconds he was by Grimes’ side, an already open tool satchel at his belt. As he worked, assisting deftly and then taking over as soon as he was sure of

what was required, he talked. He said, “Mum wanted to come along, but I soon put the damper on that. But I was bloody amazed to find you here.”

“Were you?” asked Grimes coldly.

“You bet I was. Never thought you were cut out to be a bloody pirate.” He cursed briefly as a spatter of hot metal from his sizzling soldering iron stung his hand. “A cold weld’d be better, but it’d take too much time. But where was I? Oh, yes. The shock to me system when I saw you comin’ aboard this wagon.”

“I have my quite valid reasons,” Grimes told him stiffly.

“You’re tellin’ me. Just as my missus had quite valid reasons for wantin’ to come with me. But she ain’t a gunnery expert.” He added piously, “Thank Gawd.”

“And I am one,” said the Ensign, trying to change the drift of the conversation before he lost his temper. “Yes. that’s right. Just stick to the color code. The blue wiring’s the ALGE . . .”

“I know,” Baxter told him. “Tell me, is it any good?”

“Yes. Of course, if an enemy held us in her beams for any prolonged period we should all be cooked, but as far as it goes it’s effective enough.”

“Hope you’re right.” He made the last connections, then replaced the panel on the open shallow box. “Here’s yer magic cabinet, Professor. All we have ter see now is what rabbits yer can pull outer the hat.”

“Plenty, I hope,” said Captain Craven, who had returned to Control. “And are you ready now, Mr. Grimes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then we’ll make it stations. If you will take the copilot’s chair, while Mr. Baxter goes along to look after his rockets.”

“Will do, Skipper,” said the engineer, packing away his tools as he pulled himself toward the exit hatch.

The ship’s intercom came to life, in Jane Pentecost’s voice. “Connection between vessels severed. Airlock door closed.”

“We’re still connected,” grumbled Craven. “Delia O’Ryan still has her magnetic grapnels out.” He spoke into the transceiver microphone: “Epsilon Sextans to Delta Orionis. Cast off, please. Over.”

“Delta Orionis to Epsilon Sextans. Casting off.” Through a viewport Grimes could see one of the bright mooring wires snaking back into its recess. “All clear, Captain.”

“Thank you, Captain Kennedy.” And in a softer voice, “And I hope you keep that handle to your name, Bill.”

“Thank you, sir. And all the best, Captain, from all of us, to all of you. And

good hunting.”

“Thanks. And look after the old Delia, Captain. And yourself. Over-and out.” “Delta Orionis to Epsilon Sextans. Over and out.”

(There was something very final, thought Grimes, about those outs.)

He was aware that the ships were drifting slowly apart. Now he could see  all of Delta Orionis from his viewport. He could not help recalling the day on which he had first seen her, at the Woomera spaceport. So much had happened since that day. (And so much was still to happen-he hoped.) He heard Craven say into the intercom, “Stand by for temporal precession. We’re desynchronizing.” Then, there was the giddiness, and the off-beat whine of the Mannschenn Drive that pierced his eardrums painfully, and beyond the viewports the great, shining shape of the other ship shimmered eerily and was suddenly warped into the likeness of a monstrous Klein

flash-then vanished. Where she had been (where she still was, in space but not in time) shone the distant stars, the stars that in this distorted continuum were pulsing spirals of iridescence.

“Mannschenn Drive. Cut!”

The thin, high keening died abruptly. Outside, the stars were glittering points of light, piercingly bright against the blackness.

“Mr. Grimes!” Craven’s voice was sharp. “I hope that you take more interest in gunnery than you do in ship handling. In case it has escaped your notice, I would remind you that you are second in command of this vessel, and in full charge in the event of my demise.”

“Sorry, sir,” stammered Grimes. Then, suddenly bold, “But I’m not your second in command, sir. I’ve signed no Articles.”

Surprisingly, Craven laughed. “A spacelawyer, yet! Well, Mr. Grimes, as soon as we get this vessel on course we’ll attend to the legal formalities. Meanwhile, may I request your close attention to what I am doing?”

“You may, sir.”

Thereafter he watched and listened carefully. He admired the skill with which Craven turned the ship on her directional gyroscopes until the red-glowing target star was centered exactly in the cartwheel sight. He

noted that the Captain used his reaction drive at a longer period and at a higher rate of acceleration than usual, and said as much. He was told, the words falling slowly and heavily in the pseudo-gravity, “They . . . will . . . expect . . . us . . . to . . . be . . . in . . . a . . . hurry. We must . . . not . . . disappoint . . . them.”

Speed built up, fast-but it was a velocity that, in the context of the interstellar distances to be traversed, was no more than a snail’s crawl. Then-and the sudden silence was like a physical blow-the thunder of the rockets ceased. The screaming roar had died, but the ship was not quiet. The whine of the Mannschenn Drive pervaded her every compartment, vibrated through every member of her structure. She was falling, falling

through space and time, plunging through the warped continuum to her rendezvous with Death . . . .

And whose death? wondered Grimes.

He said, “I should have asked before, sir. But how are . . . how are they going to find us?”

“I don’t know,” said Craven. “I don’t know. But they’ve found other ships when they’ve wanted to. They’ve never used the old pirate’s technique of lying in wait at breaking-out points. A Mass Proximity Indicator? Could be. It’s theoretically possible. It could be for a ship under Mannschenn Drive what radar is for a ship in normal space-time. Or some means of homing on a temporal precession field? That’s more like it, I think, as this vessel was able to escape when she went random.

“But if they want us-and they will-they’ll find us. And then”-he looked at Grimes, his blue gaze intense-“and then it’s up to you, Ensign.”

“To all of us,” said Grimes. XIII

SHE WAS UNDERMANNED, this Epsilon Sextans, but she functioned quite efficiently. Craven kept a Control Room watch himself, and the other two watchkeepers were Grimes and Jane Pentecost. Four on and eight off were their hours of duty- but there was plenty of work to be done in the off duty periods. The Captain, of course, was in over-all charge, and was trying to bring his command to the pitch of efficiency necessary for a fighting ship. Jane Pentecost was responsible for meals-although these, involving little more than the opening of cans, did not take up too much of her time. She had also taken over biochemist’s duties, but called now and again upon Grimes to help her with the ATREG unit. Its operation was simple enough, but it was inclined to be temperamental and, now and again, allowed the carbon dioxide concentration to reach a dangerous level. Grimes’ main concern was his armament. He could not indulge in a practice shot-the expulsion of mass by a ship running under interstellar drive is suicidal; even the employment of laser weapons is dangerous. But there were tests that he could make; there was, in the ship’s stores, a spare chart tank that he was able to convert to a battle simulator.

Craven helped him, and set up targets in the tank, glowing points of light that were destroyed by the other sparks that represented Grimes’ missiles. After one such drill he said, “You seem to know your stuff, Ensign. Now, what’s your grasp of the tactical side of it?”

Grimes considered his words before speaking. “Well, sir, we could use laser with the Drive in operation-but we haven’t got laser. The pirates have. They can synchronize and just carve us up at leisure. This time, I think they’ll go for the interstellar drive engine room first, so that we can’t get away by the use of random precession.”

“Yes. That’s what they’ll do. That’s why I have that compartment literally sealed in a cocoon of insulation. Oh, I know it’s not effective, but it will give us a second or so of grace. No more.”

“We can’t use our reflective vapor,” went on Grimes. “That’d be almost as bad, from our viewpoint, as loosing off a salvo of missiles. But, sir, when this ship was first attacked there must have been a considerable loss of mass when the atmosphere was expelled through the rents in the shell plating . . . the Drive was running. How was it that the ship wasn’t flung into some other space-time?”

“Come, come, Mr. Grimes. You should know the answer to that one. She was held by the powerful temporal precession fields of the drive units of the two pirates. And then, of course, when the engineers managed to set up their random precession there was no mass left to be expelled.”

“H’m. I see. Or I think I see. Then, in that case, why shouldn’t I use my ALGE as soon as we’re attacked?”

“No. Better not. Something might just go wrong-and I don’t want to become one of my own ancestors.”

“Then . . . ?”

“You tell me, Mr. Grimes.”

“Cut our Drive . . . ? Break out into the normal continuum? Yes . . . it could work.” He was becoming enthusiastic. “And then we shall be waiting

for-them, with our missile batteries, when they break out.”

“We’ll make an admiral of you yet, young Grimes.”

WITH WATCHKEEPING and with off-watch duties time was fully occupied. And yet there was something missing. There was, Grimes said to himself, one hell of a lot missing. Jane Pentecost had her own watch to keep, and her own jobs to do when she was not in the control room-but she and Grimes had some free time to share. But they did not share it.

He broached the subject when he was running a test on the artificial chlorophyll in the ATREG. “Jane, I was hoping I’d see more of you.”

“You’re seeing plenty of me.” “But not enough.”

“Don’t be tiresome,” she snapped. Then, in a slightly softer voice, “Don’t . .

. “

  • . . . spoil everything?” he finished for her sardonically. “You know what I mean,” she told him coldly.

“Do I?” He groped for words. “Jane . . . Damn it all, I hoped . . . After what happened aboard the Delia O’Ryan . . .”

“That,” she said, “was different.” Her face flushed. “I tell you this, Grimes, if I’d known that you were coming along with us it never would have happened.”

“No?”

“NO!”

“Even so . . . I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t . . .”

“Why we shouldn’t what? Oh, all right, all right. I know what you mean. But it’s out of the question. I’ll tell you why, in words of one syllable. In a ship such as Delta Orionis discreet fun and games were permissible, even desirable. No shortage of women-both crew and passengers. Here, I’m the only female. Your friend Mr. Baxter has been sniffing after me. And Mr. Wolverton, the Interstellar Chief. And his Second. And even, bereaved though he is, the Bearded Bastard. He might get away with it-the privileges of rank and all that. But nobody else would-most certainly not yourself.  How long would it remain a secret if we went to bed together?”

“I suppose you’re right, but . . .”

“But what? Oh John, John, you are a stubborn cow.” “Cow?”

“Sorry. Just Rimworldsese. Applicable to both sexes.” “Talking of sex . . .”

“Oh, shut up!”

“I’ll not.” She looked desirable standing there. A small smudge of grease on her flushed cheek was like a beauty spot. “I’ll not,” he said again. She was close to him, and he was acutely conscious that beneath the thin uniform shirt and the short shorts there was only Jane. He had only to reach out. He did so. At first she did not resist-and then exploded into a frenzy of   activity. Before he could let go of her a hard, rough hand closed on his shirt collar and yanked him backwards.

“Keep yer dirty paws off her!” snarled a voice. It was Baxter’s. “Keep yer dirty paws off her! If we didn’t want yer ter let off the fireworks I’d do yer, here an’ now.”

“And keep your dirty paws off me!” yelped Grimes. It was meant to be an authentic quarterdeck bark, but it didn’t come out that way.

“Let him go, Mr. Baxter,” said Jane, adding, “please.”

“Oh, orl right. If yer says so. But I still think we should run him up ter the Old Man.”

“No. Better not.” She addressed Grimes, “Thank you for your help on the ATREG, Mr. Grimes. And thank you, Mr. Baxter, for your help. It’s time that I started looking after the next meal.”

She left, not hastily, but not taking her time about it either. When she was gone Baxter released Grimes. Clumsily the Ensign turned himself around, with a wild flailing motion. Unarmed combat had never been his specialty, especially unarmed combat in Free Fall conditions. But he knew that he had to fight, and the rage and the humiliation boiling up in him made it certain that he would do some damage.

But Baxter was laughing, showing all his ugly, yellow teeth. “Come orf it, Admiral! An’ if we must have a set-to-not in here. Just smash the UV projector-an’ bang goes our air conditioning! Simmer down, mate. Simmer down!”

Grimes simmered down, slowly. “But I thought you were out for my blood, Mr. Baxter.”

“Have ter put on a show for the Sheilas now an’ again. Shouldn’t mind puttin’ on another kind o’ show with her. But not in public-like you was goin’ to. It just won’t do-not until the shootin’ is over, anyhow. An’ even then . .

. . So, Admiral, it’s paws off as far as you’re concerned. An’ as far as I’m concerned-an’ the Chief Time Twister an’ his sidekick. But, if yer can spare the time, I propose we continue the conversation in my palatial dogbox.”

Grimes should have felt uneasy as he followed the engineer to his accommodation but, oddly enough, he did not. The rough friendliness just could not be the prelude to a beating up. And it wasn’t.

“Come in,” said Baxter, pulling his sliding door to one side. “Now yer see how the poor live. This is . . .”

“No,” protested Grimes. “No.”

“Why? I was only goin’ to say that this is me ‘umble ‘umpy. An’ I’d like yer to meet a coupla friends o’ mine-and there’s more where they came from.”

The “friends” were two drinking bulbs. Each bore proudly no less than four stars on its label. The brandy was smooth, smooth and potent. Grimes sipped appreciatively. “I didn’t know that we had any of this aboard Delia O’Ryan.”

“An’ nor did we. You’ll not find this tipple in the bar stores of any merchantman, nor aboard any of yer precious Survey Service wagons. Space stock for the Emperor’s yacht, this is. So here’s ter the Waverley taxpayers!”

“But where did you get this from, Mr. Baxter?”

“Where d’yer think? I’ve had a good fossick around the holds o’ this old bitch, an’ there’s quite a few things too good to let fall inter the hands o’ those bloody Waldegrenese.”

“But that’s pillage.”

“It’s common sense. Mind yer, I doubt if Captain Craven would approve, so yer’d better chew some dry tea-that’s in the cargo too-before yer see the Old Man again. All the bleedin’ same-it’s no worse than him borrowing your Survey Service stores an’ weapons from his cargo.”

“I suppose it’s not,” admitted Grimes. All the same, he still felt guilty when he was offered a second bulb of the luxurious spirit. But he did not refuse it.

XIV

HE WAS A GOOD FOSSICKER, was Baxter.

Two days later, as measured by the ship’s chronometer, he was waiting for Grimes as he came off watch. “Ensign,” he announced without preamble, “I’ve found somethin’ in the cargo.”

“Something new, you mean?” asked Grimes coldly. He still did not approve of pillage, although he had shared the spoils.

“Somethin’ that shouldn’t be there. Somethin’ that’s up your alley, I think.” “There’s no reason why equipment for the Waverley Navy shouldn’t be

among the cargo.”

“True enough. But it wouldn’t be in a case with Beluga Caviar stenciled all over it. I thought I’d found somethin’ to go with the vodka I half pinched, but it won’t.”

“Then what is it?” “Come and see.”

“All right.” Briefly Grimes wondered if he should tell Craven, who had relieved the watch, then decided against it. The Old Man would probably insist on making an investigation in person, in which case Grimes would have to pass another boring hour or so in the Control Room.

The two men made their way aft until they came to the forward bulkhead of the cargo spaces. Normally these would have been pressurized, but, when Epsilon Sextans’ atmosphere had been replenished from Delta Orionis’ emergency cylinders, it had seemed pointless to waste precious oxygen. So access was through an airlock that had a locker outside, in which suits, ready for immediate use, were stowed.

Grimes and Baxter suited up, helping each other as required. Then the engineer put out his gloved hand to the airlock controls. Grimes stopped him, bent forward to touch helmets. He said, “Hang on. If we open the door it’ll register on the panel in Control.”

“Like hell it will!” came the reply. “Most of the wiring was slashed through during the piracy. I fixed the hold lights-but damn all else.” Grimes, through the transparency of the visors, saw the other’s grin. “For obvious reasons.”

Grimes shrugged, released Baxter. Everything was so irregular that one more, relatively minor irregularity hardly mattered. He squeezed with the engineer into the small airlock, waited until the atmosphere it held had been pumped back into the body of the ship, then himself pushed the button that actuated the mechanism of the inner valve.

This was not the first time that he had been in the cargo spaces. Some of the weapons “borrowed” from Delta Orionis’ cargo had been mounted in the holds. When he had made his inspections it had never occurred to him that the opening and closing of the airlock door had not registered in Control.

He stood back and let Baxter lead the way. The engineer pulled himself to one of the bins in which he had been foraging. The door to it was still open,

and crates and cartons disturbed by the pillager floated untidily around the opening.

“You’ll have to get all this restowed,” said Grimes sharply. “If we have to accelerate there’ll be damage.” But he might as well have been speaking to himself. The suit radios had not been switched on and, in any case, there was no air to carry sound waves, however faintly.

Baxter had scrambled into the open bin. Grimes followed him, saw him standing by the case, its top prized open, that carried the lettering, BELUGA CAVIAR. PRODUCE OF THE RUSSIAN SOCIAL DEMOCRATIC

REPUBLIC. Baxter beckoned. Grimes edged his way past the drifting packages to join him.

There was something in the case-but it was not jars or cans of salted sturgeon’s eggs. It looked at first like a glittering, complex piece of mobile statuary, although it was motionless. It was a metal mismating of gyroscope and Moebius Strip. It did not look wrong-nothing functional ever does-but it did look odd.

Grimes was standing hard against Baxter now. Their helmets were touching. He asked, “What . . . what is it?”

“I was hopin’ you’d be able ter tell me, Admiral.” Then, as Grimes extended a cautious hand into the case, “Careful! Don’t touch nothin’!”

“Why not?”

  • ‘Cause this bloody lot was booby-trapped, that’s why. See that busted spring? An’ see that cylinder in the corner? That’s a thermite bomb, or somethin’ worse. Shoulda gone orf when I pried the lid up-but luckily I buggered the firin’ mechanism with me bar when I stuck it inter just the right crack. But I think the bastard’s deloused now.”

“It looks as though it-whatever it is-is hooked up to one of the electrical circuits.”

“Yair. An’ it’s not the lightin’ circuit. Must be the airlock indicators.” “Must be.” As a weapons expert, Grimes could see the thermite bomb-if

that was what it was- had been rendered ineffective. It hadn’t been an

elaborate trap, merely a device that would destroy the-the thing if the case housing it were tampered with. Baxter had been lucky-and, presumably, those who had planted the-what the hell was it?-unlucky.

With a cautious finger he nudged the rotor.

It turned-and he was reminded of those other rotors, the ever-precessing gyroscopes of the Mannschenn Drive.

He remembered, then. He remembered a series of lectures at the Academy on future weapons and navigational devices. Having decided upon his specialty he had been really interested only in the weapons. But there had been talk of a man called Carlotti, who was trying to develop a device that would induce temporal precession in radio signals, so that instantaneous communications would be possible throughout the Galaxy without ships and

shore stations having to rely upon the temperamental and unreliable telepaths. And beacons, employing the same principle, could be used for navigation by ships under interstellar drive . . . .

So this could be one of Signor Carlotti’s gadgets. Perhaps the Empire of Waverley had offered him a higher price than had the Federation. But why the BELUGA CAVIAR? To deter and confuse industrial spies? But Epsilon Sextans possessed excellent strong rooms for the carriage of special cargo.

And why was the thing wired up?

Suddenly it was obvious. Somehow, the Duchy of Waldegren possessed Carlotti equipment. This . . . this beacon had been transmitting, unknown to anybody aboard the ship, during the voyage. The frigates had homed upon her. When, inadvertently, its power supply had been shut off the victim, using random precession, had been able to make her escape.

So, if the pirates were to make a second attack it would have to be reactivated.

“We’d better throw this lot on to the Old Man’s plate,” said Grimes. CAPTAIN CRAVEN listened intently as Grimes and Baxter told their story.

They feared that he was going to lose his temper when told of the

engineer’s cargo pillaging, but he only remarked, in a dry voice, “I guess that the consignees can afford to compensate us for our time and trouble. Even so, Mr. Baxter, I insist that this practice must cease forthwith.” And then, when Grimes described the device, he said, “Yes, I have heard of Carlotti’s work. But I didn’t think that he’d got as far as a working model. But the thing could have been developed by Waldegrenese scientists from the data in his published papers.”

“So you agree, sir, that it is some kind of beacon upon which the pirates can home?”

“What else can it be? Now, gentlemen, we find ourselves upon the horns of a dilemma. If we don’t reactivate the bloody thing, the chances are that we shall deliver the ship and cargo intact, at no great risk to ourselves, and to the joy of the underwriters. If we do reactivate it-then the chances are that we shall have to fight our way through. And there’s no guarantee that we shall be on the winning side.”

“I was shanghaied away here as a gunnery officer,” said Grimes. “Shanghaied-or press-ganged?” queried Craven.

“The technique was more that of the shanghai,” Grimes told him.

“Indeed?” Craven’s voice was cold. “But no matter. “You’re here, and you’re one of my senior officers. What course of action do you recommend?”

Grimes replied slowly and carefully. “Legally speaking, what we’re involved in isn’t a war. But it is a war, of sorts. And a just war. And, in any case, the Master of a merchant vessel has the legal right to resist illegal seizure or destruction by force of arms. Of course, we have to consider the illegal circumstances attending the arming of this ship . . . .”

“Let’s not get bogged down in legalities and illegalities,” said Craven, with a touch of impatience. “The lawyers can sort it all out eventually. Do we reactivate?”

“Yes,” said Grimes.

“And you, Mr. Baxter. What do you say?”

“We Rim Worlders just don’t like Waldegren. I’ll not pass up a chance ter kick the bastards in the teeth. Reactivate, Skipper.”

“Good. And how long will it take you to make good the circuit the beacon’s spliced in to?”

“Twenty minutes. No more. But d’yer think we oughter put the whole thing to the vote first?”

“No. Everybody here was under the impression that we should be fighting. With one possible exception, they’re all volunteers.”

“But I did volunteer, sir,” objected Grimes.

“Make your mind up, Ensign. You were telling me just now that you’d been shanghaied. All right. Everybody is a volunteer. So we just rebait the trap without any more yapping about it. Let me know as soon as you’re ready, Mr. Baxter. Will you require assistance?”

“I’ll manage, Skipper.”

When he was gone Craven turned to Grimes. “You realize, Ensign, that this puts me in rather a jam. Let me put it this way. Am I justified in risking the lives of all my officers to carry out a private act of vengeance?”

“I think that you can take Mr. Baxter and myself as being representative, sir. As for the others-Miss Pentecost’s a Rim Worlder, and her views will coincide with Baxter’s. And the original crew members-they’re just as entitled to vengeance as you are. I know that if I’d been an officer of this ship at the time of the original piracy I’d welcome the chance of hitting back.”

“You would. Yes. Even if, as now, an alternative suddenly presented itself. But . . .”

“I honestly don’t see what you’re worrying about, sir.”

“You wouldn’t. It’s a matter of training. But, for all my Reserve commission, I’m a merchant officer. Oh, I know that any military commander is as responsible for the lives of his men as I am-but he also knows that those lives, like his own, are expendable.”

“It’s a pity that Baxter found the beacon,” said Grimes.

“It is-and it isn’t. If he hadn’t found it, I shouldn’t be soliloquizing like a spacefaring Hamlet. And we should have brought the ship in intact and, like as not, all been awarded Lloyd’s Medals. On the other hand-if he hadn’t found it we-or I?-should have lost our chance of getting back at the

pirates.”

“You aren’t Hamlet, sir.” Grimes spoke with the assurance of the very young, but in later years he was to remember his words, and to feel neither shame nor embarrassment, but only a twinge of envy and regret. “You  aren’t Hamlet. You’re Captain Craven, Master under God. Please, sir, for once in your life do something you want to do, and argue it out later with the Almightly if you must.”

“And with my owners?” Grimes couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw something like a smile beneath Craven’s full beard. “And with my owners?”

“Master Astronauts’ certificates aren’t all that common, sir. If worst comes to worst, there’s always the Rim Worlds. The Sundowner Line, isn’t it?”

“I’d already thought of that.” There was no doubt about it. Craven was smiling. “After all that you’ve been saying to me, I’m surprised that you don’t join forces with our Miss Pentecost.”

“Go out to the Rim, sir? Hardly.”

“Don’t be so sure, young Grimes. Anyhow, you’d better get Miss Pentecost up here now so that we can see how friend Baxter is getting on. There’s always the risk that he’ll find a few more things among the cargo that aren’t nailed down.”

XV

GRIMES CALLED Jane Pentecost on the intercom; after a minute or so she made her appearance in Control. Craven told her what Baxter had discovered and what he, Craven, intended doing about it. She nodded in emphatic agreement. “Yes,” she said. “The thing’s here to be used-and to be used the way that we want to use it. But I don’t think that we should make it public.”

“Why not, Miss Pentecost?”

“I could be wrong, Captain, but in my opinion there are quite a few people in this ship who’d welcome the chance of wriggling out of being the cheese in the mousetrap. When there’s no alternative they’re brave enough. When there’s a face-saving alternative . . .”

Baxter’s voice came from the intercom speaker. “Chief Reaction Drive Engineer to Control. Repairs completed. Please check your panel.”

Yes, the circuit had been restored. The buzzer sounded, and on the board a glowing red light showed that the outer door to the cargo hold airlock was open. How much of the failure of the indicators was due to battle damage and how much to Baxter’s sabotage would never be known. Craven’s heavy eyebrows lifted ironically as he looked at Grimes, and Grimes shrugged in reply.

Then, the watch handed over to the girl, the two men made their way aft from the Control Room. Outside the airlock they found Baxter, already suited up save for his helmet. There had been only two suits in the locker, and the engineer had brought another one along for the Captain from

somewhere.

The little compartment would take only two men at a time. Craven and Grimes went through first, then were joined by Baxter. There was no longer any need for secrecy, so the suit radios were switched on. The only person likely to be listening in was Jane Pentecost in Control.

Grimes heard Craven muttering angrily as they passed packages that obviously had been opened and pillaged, but the Captain did no more than mutter. He possessed the sense of proportion so essential to his rank-and a few bulbs of looted liquor were, after all, relatively unimportant.

They came to the bin in which the case allegedly containing caviar had been stowed, in which some secret agent of Waldegren had tapped the circuit supplying power to the beacon. Inside the box the gleaming machine was still motionless. Craven said, “I thought you told me the current was on.”

“It is, Skipper.” Baxter’s voice was pained. “But I switched it off before I fixed the wiring.” He extended a gloved finger, pressed a little toggle switch.

And nothing happened.

“Just a nudge.” whispered the engineer.

The oddly convoluted rotor turned easily enough, and as it rotated it seemed almost to vanish in a mist of its own generating-a mist that was no more than an optical illusion.

It rotated, slowed-and stopped.

Baxter cast aspersions upon the legitimacy of its parenthood. Then, still grumbling, he produced a volt-meter. Any doubt that power was being delivered to the machine was soon dispelled. Power was being delivered-but it was not being used.

“Well, Mr. Baxter?” demanded Craven.

“I’m a fair mechanic, Skipper-but I’m no physicist.” “Mr. Grimes?”

“I specialized in gunnery, sir.”

Craven snorted, the sound unpleasantly loud in the helmet phones. He said sarcastically, “I’m only the Captain, but I have some smatterings of Mannschenn Drive maintenance and operation. This thing isn’t a Mannschenn Drive unit-but it’s first cousin to one. As I recall it, some of the earlier models couldn’t be started without the employment of a small, temporal precession field initiator. Furthermore, these initiators, although there is no longer any need for them, are still carried as engine room  spares in the Commission’s ships.”

“And that gadget’ll start this little time-twister, Skipper?” asked the engineer.

“It might, Mr. Baxter. It might. So, Mr. Grimes, will you go along to the Mannschenn Drive room and ask Mr. Wolverton for his initiator? No need to tell him what it’s for.”

WOLVERTON was in the Mannschenn Drive room, staring moodily at the gleaming complexity of precessing rotors. Grimes hastily averted his eyes from the machine. It frightened him, and he didn’t mind admitting it. And there was something about the engineer that frightened him, too. The tall, cadaverous man, with the thin strands of black hair drawn over his  gleaming skull, looked more like a seer than a ship’s officer, looked like a fortune-teller peering into the depths of an uncannily mobile crystal ball. He was mumbling, his voice a low, guttural muttering against the thin, high keening of his tumbling gyroscopes. The Ensign at last was able to make out the words.

“Divergent tracks . . . . To be, or not to be, that is the question-“

Grimes thought, This ship should be renamed the State of Denmark. There’s something rotten here . . . . He said sharply, “Mr. Wolverton!”

Slowly the Chief Interstellar Drive Engineer turned his head, stared at Grimes unseeingly at first. His eyes came into focus. He whispered, “It’s you.”

“Who else, Chief? Captain’s compliments, and he’d like to borrow your temporal precession field initiator.”

“He would, would he? And why?”

“An-an experiment.” said Grimes, with partial truth. The fewer people who knew the whole truth the better.

“An experiment?”

“Yes. If you wouldn’t mind letting me have it now, Chief . . . .”

“But it’s engine room stores. It’s the Commission’s stores. It’s a very delicate instrument. It is against the Commission’s regulations to issue it to unqualified personnel.”

“But Mr. Baxter is helping with the . . . experiment.”

“Mr. Baxter! That letter-off of cheap fireworks. That . . . Rim Runner! No. No. Mr. Baxter is not qualified personnel.”

“Then perhaps you could lend us one of your juniors.”

“No. No, I would not trust them. Why do you think that I am here, Mr. Grimes? Why do you think that I have been tied to my gyroscopes? Literally tied, almost. If I had not been here, keeping my own watch, when the pirates struck, this ship would have been utterly destroyed. I know the Drive, Mr. Grimes.” He seized the Ensign’s arm, turned him so that he was facing the gleaming, spinning rotors, endlessly precessing, endlessly tumbling down the dark dimensions, shimmering on the very verge of invisibility. Grimes wanted to close his eyes, but could not. “I know the Drive, Mr. Grimes. It talks to me. It shows me things. It warned me, that

time, that Death was waiting for this ship and all in her. And now it warns me again. But there is a . . . a divergence . . . .”

“Mr. Wolverton, please! There is not much time.”

“But what is Time, Mr. Grimes? What is Time? What do you know of the forking World Lines, the Worlds of If? I’ve lived with this machine, Mr. Grimes. It’s part of me-or am I part of it? Let me show you . . . .” His grip on the Ensign’s arm was painful. “Let me show you. Look. Look into the machine. What do you see?”

Grimes saw only shadowy, shimmering wheels and a formless darkness. “I see you, Mr. Grimes,” almost sang the engineer. “I see you-but not as

you will be. But as you might be. I see you on the bridge of your flagship,

your uniform gold-encrusted and medal-bedecked, with commodores and captains saluting you and calling you ‘sir’ . . . but I see you, too, in the control room of a shabby little ship, a single ship, in shabby clothes, and the badge on your cap is one that I have never seen, is one that does not yet exist . . . .”

“Mr. Wolverton! That initiator. Please!”

“But there is no hurry, Mr. Grimes. There is no hurry. There is time enough for everything-for everything that is, that has been, that will be and that might be. There is time to decide, Mr. Grimes. There is time to decide whether or not we make our second rendezvous with Death. The initiator is part of it all, Mr. Grimes, is it not? The initiator is the signpost that stands at the forking of the track. You weren’t here, Mr. Grimes, when the pirates struck. You did not hear the screams, you did not smell the stench of burning flesh. You’re young and foolhardy; all that you want is the chance to play with your toys. And all that I want, now that I know that alternatives exist, is the chance to bring this ship to her destination with no further loss of life.”

“Mr. Wolverton . . .”

“Mr. Grimes!” It was Captain Craven’s voice, and he was in a vile temper. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

“Captain,” said Wolverton. “I can no more than guess at what you intend to do-but I have decided not to help you to do it.”

“Then give us the initiator. We’ll work it ourselves.” “No, Captain.”

“Give me the initiator, Mr. Wolverton. That’s an order.”

“A lawful command, Captain? As lawful as those commands of yours that armed this ship?”

“Hold him, Grimes!” (And who’s supposed to be holding whom? wondered the Ensign. Wolverton’s grip was still tight and painful on his arm.) “Hold him, while I look in the storeroom!”

“Captain! Get away from the door! You’ve no right . . .”

Wolverton relinquished his hold on Grimes who, twisting with an agility that surprised himself, contrived to get both arms about the engineer’s waist. In the scuffle the contact between their magnetic shoe soles and the deck was broken. They hung there, helpless, with no solidity within reach of their flailing limbs to give them purchase. They hung there, clinging to each  other, but more in hate than in love. Wolverton’s back was to the machine; he could not see, as could Grimes, that there was an indraught of air into the spinning, shimmering complexity. Grimes felt the beginnings of panic, more than the mere beginnings. There were no guardrails; he had read somewhere why this was so, but the abstruse physics involved did not matter-all that mattered was that there was nothing to prevent him and Wolverton from being drawn into the dimension-twisting field of the thing.

He freed, somehow, his right hand, and with an effort that sprained his shoulder brought it around in a sweeping, clumsy and brutal blow to the engineer’s face. Wolverton screamed and his grip relaxed. Violently, Grimes shoved away. To the action there was reaction.

Craven emerged from the storeroom, carrying something that looked like a child’s toy gyroscope in a transparent box. He looked around for Grimes and Wolverton at deck level and then, his face puzzled, looked up. He did not, as Grimes had been doing for some seconds, vomit-but his face, behind the beard went chalk-white. He put out his free hand and, not ungently, pulled Grimes to the deck.

He said, his voice little more than a whisper, “There’s nothing we can do. Nothing-except to get a pistol and finish him off . . . .”

Grimes forced himself to look again at the slimy, bloody obscenity that was a man turned, literally, inside-out-heart (if it was the heart) still beating, intestines still writhing.

XVI

IT WAS GRIMES who went for a pistol, fetching a Minetti from the weapons rack that he, himself, had fitted up in the Control Room. He told Jane Pentecost what he wanted it for. He made no secret of either his horror or his self blame.

She said, “But this is a war, even if it’s an undeclared one. And in a war you must expect casualties.”

“Yes, yes. I know. But I pushed him into the field.”

“It was an accident. It could easily have been you instead of him. And I’m glad that it wasn’t.”

“But you haven’t seen . . .”

“And I don’t want to.” Her voice hardened. “Meanwhile, get the hell out of here and back to the Mannschenn Drive room. If you’re so sorry for the poor bastard, do something about putting him out of his misery.”

“But . . .”

“Don’t be such a bloody coward, Grimes.”

The words hurt-mainly because there was so much truth in them. Grimes was dreading having to see again the twisted obscenity that had once been a man, was dreading having to breathe again the atmosphere of that compartment, heavy with the reek of hot oil, blood and fecal matter. But, with the exception of Craven, he was the only person in the ship trained in the arts of war. He recalled the words of a surgeon-commander who had lectured the midshipmen of his course on the handling of battle

casualties-and recalled, too, how afterward the young gentlemen had sneered at the bloodthirstiness of one who was supposed to be a professional healer. “When one of your shipmates has really had it, even if he’s your best friend, don’t hesitate a moment about finishing him off. You’ll be doing him a kindness. Finish him off-and get him out of sight. Shockingly wounded men are bad for morale.”

“What are you waiting for?” demanded Jane Pentecost. “Do you want me to do it?”

Grimes said nothing, just hurried out of the Control Room.

Craven was still in the Mannschenn Drive room when Grimes got back there. With him were two of the interstellar drive engineers-the Second and the Third. Their faces were deathly white, and the Second’s prominent Adam’s apple was working spasmodically, but about them there was an air of grim resolution. The Third-how could he bear to touch that slimy, reeking

mess?-had hold of its shoulders (white, fantastically contorted bone gleaming pallidly among red convolutions of flesh), while the Second, a heavy spanner in his hand, was trying to decide where to strike.

The Captain saw Grimes. “Give me that!” he snapped, and snatched the pistol from the Ensign’s hand. Then, to the engineers, “Stand back!”

The little weapon rattled sharply and viciously. To the other smells was added the acridity of burned propellant. What had been Wolverton was driven to the deck by the impact of the tiny projectiles, and adhered there. There was surprisingly little blood, but the body had stopped twitching.

Craven handed the empty pistol back to the Ensign. He ordered, “You stay here, Mr. Grimes, and organize the disposal of the body.” He went to the locker where he had put the initiator, took out the little instrument and, carrying it carefully, left the Mannschenn Drive room. Neither of the engineers, still staring with horrified fascination at their dead Chief, noticed.

“How . . . how did it happen?” asked the Second, after a long silence. “He fell into the field,” said Grimes.

“But how? How? He was always getting on us about being careless, and telling us what was liable to happen to us, and now it’s happened to him-“

“That’s the way of it,” contributed the Third, with a certain glum satisfaction. “Don’t do as I do, do as I say.”

“Have you a box?” asked Grimes.

“A box?” echoed the Second.

“Yes. A box.” Now that he was doing something, doing something useful, Grimes was beginning to feel a little better. “We can’t have a funeral while we’re running under interstellar drive. We have to . . . to put him somewhere.” Out of sight, he mentally added.

“That chest of spares?” muttered the Second. “Just the right size,” agreed the Third.

“Then get it,” ordered Grimes.

The chest, once the spares and their packing had been removed and stowed elsewhere, was just the right size. Its dimensions were almost those of a coffin. It was made of steel, its bottom magnetized, and remained where placed on the deck while the three men, fighting down their recurring nausea, handled the body into it. All of them sighed audibly in relief when, at last, the close-fitting lid covered the remains. Finally, the Third ran a welding torch around the joint. As he was doing so the lights flickered.

Was it because of the torch? wondered Grimes. Or was it because the beacon in the hold had been reactivated?

Somehow he could not feel any real interest.

CLEANED UP after a fashion, but still feeling physically ill, he was back in the Control Room. Craven was there, and Baxter was with him. Jane Pentecost had been relieved so that she could attend to her duties in the galley. “Not that I feel like a meal,” the Captain had said. “And I doubt very much that Mr. Grimes does either.”

“Takes a lot ter put me off me tucker,” the engineer declared cheerfully as he worked on the airlock door telltale panel.

“You didn’t see Mr. Wolverton, Mr. Baxter,” said Craven grimly.

“No, Skipper. An’ I’m not sorry I didn’t.” He paused in his work to rummage in his tool bag. He produced bulbs of brandy. “But I thought you an’ the Ensign might need some o’ this.”

Craven started to say something about cargo pillage, then changed his mind. He accepted the liquor without further quibbling. The three men sipped in silence.

Baxter carelessly tossed his squeezed empty bulb aside, continued with what he had been doing. The Captain said to Grimes, “Yes. We got the thing started again. And we’ve improved upon it.”

“Improved upon it, sir? How?”

“It’s no longer only a beacon. It’s also an alarm. As soon as it picks up the radiation from the similar pieces of apparatus aboard the enemy frigates, the buzzer that Mr. Baxter is fitting up will sound, the red light will flash. We shall have ample warning . . . .”

“She’ll be right, Skipper,” said the engineer.

“Thank you, Mr. Baxter. And now; if you don’t mind, I’d like a few words in private with Mr. Grimes.”

“Don’t be too hard on him, Skipper.”

Baxter winked cheerfully at Grimes and left the control room.

“Mr. Grimes,” Craven’s voice was grave. “Mr. Grimes, today, early in your career, you have learned a lesson that some of us never have to learn. You have killed a man-yes, yes, I know that it was not intentional-and you have been privileged to see the end result of your actions.

“There are many of us who are, who have been, killers. There are many of us who have pushed buttons but who have never seen what happens at the other end of the trajectory. Perhaps people slaughtered by explosion or laser beam do not look quite so horrible as Wolverton-but, I assure you, they often look horrible enough, and often die as slowly and as agonizingly. You know, now, what violent death looks like, Mr. Grimes. So tell me, are you still willing to push your buttons, to play pretty tunes on your battle organ?”

“And what did the bodies in this ship look like, Captain?” asked Grimes. Then, remembering that one of the bodies had belonged to the woman whom Craven had loved, he bitterly regretted having asked the question.

“Not pretty,” whispered Captain Craven. “Not at all pretty.” “I’ll push your buttons for you,” Grimes told him.

And for Jane Pentecost, he thought. And for the others. And for myself? The worst of it all is that I haven’t got the excuse of saying that it’s what I’m paid for . . . .

XVII

DOWN THE DARK dimensions fell Epsilon Sextans, falling free through the warped continuum. But aboard the ship time still possessed meaning, the master chronometer still ticked away the seconds, minutes and hours; the little man-made world was still faithful to that puissant god of scientific intelligences everywhere in the universe-the Clock. Watch succeeded watch in Control Room and engine room. Meals were prepared and served on time. There was even, toward the end, a revival of off-duty social activities: a chess set was discovered and brought into use, playing cards were  produced and a bridge school formed.

But there was one social activity that, to Grimes’ disappointment was not resumed-the oldest social activity of them all. More than once he pleaded with Jane-and every time she laughed away his pleas. He insisted-and that made matters worse. He was (as he said), the donkey who had been allowed one nibble of the carrot and who could not understand why the carrot had been snatched away. He was (she said), a donkey. Period.

He should have guessed what was happening, but he did not. He was young, and inexperienced in the ways of women-of men and women. He

just could not imagine that Jane would spare more than a casual glance for any of the engineers or for the flabby, pasty youth who was the psionic radio officer-and in this he was right.

Epsilon Sextans was, for a ship of her class, very well equipped. In addition to the usual intercom system she was fitted with closed circuit television. In the event of emergency the Captain or watch officer, by the flip of a switch, could see what was happening in any compartment of the vessel. Over the control panel, in big, red letters, were the words: EMERGENCY USE ONLY. Grimes did not know what was the penalty for improper use of the apparatus in the Merchant Navy-but he did know that in the Survey Service officers had been cashiered and given an ignominious discharge for this offense. The more cramped and crowded the conditions in which men-and women-work and live, the more precious is privacy.

It was Grimes’ watch.

When he had taken over, all the indications were that it would be as boring as all the previous watches. All that was required of the watchkeeper was that he stay awake. Grimes stayed awake. He had brought a book with him into Control, hiding it inside his uniform shirt, and it held his attention for a while. Then, following the example of generations of watch officers, he set up a game of three dimensional tic-tac-toe in the chart tank and played, right hand against left. The left hand was doing remarkably well when a buzzer sounded. The Ensign immediately cleared the tank and looked at the airlock indicator panel. But there were no lights on the board, and he realized that it was the intercom telephone.

“Control,” he said into his microphone.

“P.R.O. here. I . . . I’m not happy, Mr. Grimes . . . .” “Who is?” quipped Grimes.

“I . . . I feel . . . smothered.”

“Something wrong with the ventilation in your shack?”

“No. NO. It’s like . . . it’s like a heavy blanket soaked in ice-cold water . . .

. You can’t move . . . you can’t shout . . . you can’t hear . . . . It’s like it was before . . . .”

“Before what?” snapped Grimes-and then as the other buzzer sounded, as the additional red light flashed on the telltale panel, he realized the stupidity of his question.

At once he pressed the alarm button. This was it, at last. Action Stations! Throughout the ship the bells were shrilling, the klaxons squawking. Hastily Grimes vacated the pilot’s chair, slipped into the one from which he could control his weapons-and from which he could reach out to other controls. But where was the Old Man? Where was Captain Craven? This was the moment that he had longed for, this was the consummation toward which all his illegalities had been directed. Damn it all, where was he?

Perhaps he was floating stunned in his quarters-starting up hurriedly from

sleep he could have struck his head upon some projection, knocked himself out. If this were the case he, Grimes, would have to call Jane from her own battle station in Sick Bay to render first aid. But there was no time to lose.

The Ensign reached out, flipped the switches that would give him the picture of the interior of the Captain’s accommodation. The screen brightened, came alive. Grimes stared at the luminous presentation in sick horror. Luminous it was-with that peculiar luminosity of naked female flesh. Jane was dressing herself with almost ludicrous haste. Of the Captain there was no sign-on the screen.

Craven snarled, with cold ferocity, “You damned, sneaking, prurient puppy!” Then, in a louder voice, “Switch that damn thing off! I’ll deal with you when this is over.”

“But, sir . . .” “Switch it off, I say!”

Cheeks burning, Grimes obeyed. Then he sat staring at his armament controls, fighting down his nausea, his physical sickness. Somehow, he found time to think bitterly, So I was the knight, all set and ready to slay dragons for his lady. And all the time, she . . . He did not finish the thought.

He heard a voice calling over the intercom, one of the engineers. “Captain, they’re trying to lock on! Same as last time. Random precession, sir?”

“No. Cut the Drive!”

“Cut the Drive?” Incredulously. “You heard me. Cut!” Then, to Grimes, “And what the hell are you waiting for?”

The Ensign knew what he had to do; he had rehearsed it often enough. He did it. From the nozzles that pierced the outer shell spouted the cloud of reflective vapor, just in time, just as the enemy’s lasers lashed out at their target. It seemed that the ship’s internal temperature rose suddenly and sharply-although that could have been illusion, fostered by the sight of the fiery fog glimpsed through the viewports before the armored shutters slammed home.

There were targets now on Grimes’ fire control screen, two of them, but he could not loose a missile until the tumbling rotors of the Drive had ceased to spin, to precess. The use of the anti-laser vapor screen had been risky enough. Abruptly the screens went blank-which signified that the temporal precession rates of hunted and hunters were no longer in synchronization, that the fields of the pirates had failed to lock on. In normal spacetime there would be no need to synchronize-and then the hunters would discover that their quarry had claws and teeth.

Aboard Epsilon Sextans the keening note of the Drive died to a whisper, a barely audible murmur, fading to silence. There was the inevitable second or so of utter disorientation when, as soon as it was safe, the engineers braked the gyroscopes.

Craven acted without hesitation, giving his ship headway and acceleration with Inertial Drive. He was not running-although this was the impression that he wished to convey. He was inviting rather than evading combat-but if the Waldegren captains chose to assume that Epsilon Sextans was, as she had been, an unarmed merchantman (after all, the anti-laser screen could have been jury rigged from normal ship’s stores and equipment), taking evasive action, that was their error of judgment.

Grimes watched his screens intently. Suddenly the two blips reappeared, astern, all of a hundred kilos distant, but closing. This he reported.

“Stand by for acceleration!” ordered Craven. “Reaction Drive-stand by!”

It was all part of the pattern-a last, frantic squandering of reaction mass that could do no more than delay the inevitable. It would look good from the enemy control rooms.

“Reaction Drive ready!” reported Baxter over the intercom.

“Thank you. Captain to all hands, there will be no countdown. Fire!”

From the corner of his eye Grimes saw Craven’s hand slam down on the key. Acceleration slammed him brutally back into his chair. There was a roar that was more like an explosion than a normal rocket firing, a shock that jarred and rattled every fitting in the Control Room.

Craven remarked quietly. “That must have looked convincing enough-but I hope that Baxter didn’t really blow a chamber.”

There was only the Inertial Drive now, and the two blips that, very briefly, had fallen astern, were now creeping up again, closing the range.

“Anti-laser,” ordered Craven briefly. “But, sir, it’ll just be wasting it. They’ll not be using laser outside twenty kilometers.”

“They’ll not be expecting a gunnery specialist aboard this wagon, either.” Once again the nozzles spouted, pouring out a cloud that fell rapidly astern

of the running ship, dissipating uselessly.

Craven looked at his own screens, frowned, muttered, “They’re taking their sweet time about it . . . probably low on reaction mass themselves.” He turned to Grimes. “I think a slight breakdown of the I.D.’s in order.”

“As you say, sir.” The Ensign could not forget having been called a damned, sneaking, prurient puppy. Let Craven make his own decisions.

“Stand by for Free Fall,” ordered the Captain quietly. The steady throbbing of the Inertial Drive faltered, faltered and ceased. There were two long minutes of weightlessness, and then, for five minutes, the Drive came back into operation. A breakdown, the enemy must be thinking. A breakdown, and the engineers sweating and striving to get the ship under way again. A breakdown-it would not be surprising after the mauling she had endured at the  first  encounter.

She hung there, and although her actual speed could be measured in kilometers a second she was, insofar as her accelerating pursuers were

concerned, relatively motionless. Grimes wondered why the warships did not use their radio, did not demand surrender-Epsilon Sextans’ transceiver was switched on, but no sound issued from the speaker but the hiss and crackle of interstellar static. He voiced his puzzlement to Craven.

Craven laughed grimly. “They know who we are-or they think that they know. And they know that we know who they are. After what happened before, why should we expect mercy? All that we can do now-they think-is to get the Mannschenn Drive going again. But with that comic beacon of theirs working away merrily they’ll be able to home on us, no matter how random our precession.” He laughed again. “They haven’t a care in the world, bless their little black hearts.”

Grimes watched his screens. Forty kilometers-thirty-“Sir, the ALGE?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s your party now.”

For the third time reflective vapor gushed from the nozzles, surrounding the ship with a dense cloud. Craven, who had been watching the dials of the external temperature thermometers, remarked quietly, “They’ve opened fire. The shell plating’s heating up. Fast.”

And in the Control Room it felt hot-and hotter, Grimes pressed the button that unmasked his batteries. The gas screen, as well as affording protection from laser, hid the ship from visual observation. The enemy would not be expecting defense by force of arms.

He loosed his first salvo, felt the ship tremble as the missiles ejected themselves from their launching racks. There they were on the screens-six tiny sparks, six moronic mechanical intelligences programmed to home upon and destroy, capable of countering evasive action so long as their  propellant held out. There they were on the screens-six of them, then four, then one. This last missile almost reached its target-then it, too, blinked out. The Waldegren frigates were now using their laser for defense, not attack.

“I don’t think,” remarked Craven quietly, “that they’ll use missiles. Not yet, anyhow. They want our cargo intact.” He chuckled softly. “But we’ve got them worried.”

Grimes didn’t bother to reply. The telltale lights on his panel told him that the six AVM launchers were reloaded. The AMMs-the anti-missile

missiles-had not yet been fired. Dare he risk their use against big targets? He carried in his magazines stock sufficient for three full salvos only- and with no laser for anti-missile work dare he deplete his supply of this ammunition?

He had heard the AMMs described as “vicious little brutes.” They were to the Anti-Vessel Missiles as terriers are to mastiffs. Their warheads were small, but this was compensated for by their greater endurance. They were, perhaps, a little more “intelligent” than the larger rockets-and Grimes, vaguely foreseeing this present contingency, had made certain  modifications to their “brains.”

He pushed the button that actuated his modifications, that overrode the original programming. He depressed the firing stud. He felt the vibration as the war-rockets streaked away from the ship, and on his screens watched the tiny points of light closing the range between themselves and the two big blips that were the targets. They were fast, and they were erratic. One was picked off by laser within the first ten seconds, but the others carried on, spurting and swerving, but always boring toward their objectives. Grimes could imagine the enemy gunnery officers flailing their lasers like men, armed only with sticks, defending themselves against a horde of small, savage animals. There was, of course, one sure defense-to start up the Mannschenn Drive and to slip back into the warped continuum where   the missiles could not follow. But, in all probability, the Waldegren captains had yet to accept the fact, emotionally, that this helpless merchantman  had somehow acquired the wherewithal to strike back.

Two of the AMMs were gone now, picked off by the enemy laser. Three were still closing on the target on Epsilon Sextans’ port quarter, and only one of the target abaft the starboard beam. Grimes loosed his second flight of AMMs, followed it with a full salvo of AVMs. Then, knowing that the protective vapor screen must have been thinned and shredded by his rocketry, he sent out a replenishing gush of reflective gas.

He heard Craven cry out in exultation. The three AMMs of the first flight had hit their target, the three sparks had fused with the blip that represented the raider to port. The three sparks that were the second flight were almost there, and overtaking them were the larger and brighter sparks of the second AVM salvo. The Anti-Missile Missiles would cause only minor  damage to a ship-but, in all probability, they would throw fire control out of kilter, might even destroy laser projectors. In theory, one AVM would suffice to destroy a frigate; a hit by three at once would make destruction a certainty.

And so it was.

Seen only on the radar screen, as a picture lacking in detail painted on a fluorescent surface by an electron brush, it was anticlimactic. The blips, the large one, the three small ones and the three not so small, merged. And then there was an oddly shaped blob of luminescence that slowly broke up into a cluster of glowing fragments, a gradually expanding cluster, a leisurely burgeoning flower of pale fire.

Said Craven viciously, “The other bastard’s got cold feet . . . .”

And so it was. Where she had been on the screen was only darkness, a darkness in which the sparks that were missiles and anti-missiles milled about aimlessly. They would not turn upon each other-that would have been contrary to their programming. They would not, in theory, use their remaining fuel to home upon the only worthwhile target remaining-Epsilon Sextans herself. But, as Craven knew and as Grimes knew, theory and practice do not always coincide. Ships have been destroyed by their own missiles.

With reluctance Grimes pushed the DESTRUCT button. He said to the Captain, gesturing toward the wreckage depicted on the screen, “Pick up

survivors, sir? If there are any.”

“If there are any,” snarled Craven, “that’s their bad luck. No-we give chase to the other swine!”

XVIII

GIVE CHASE . . .

It was easier said than done. The surviving frigate had restarted her Mannschenn Drive, had slipped back into the warped continuum where, unless synchronization of precession rates was achieved and held, contact between vessels would be impossible. The Carlotti Beacon in Epsilon Sextans’ hold was worse than useless; it had been designed to be homed upon, not to be a direction-finding instrument. (In any case, it could function as such only if the beacon aboard the Waldegren ship were working.) Neither Craven nor Grimes knew enough about the device to effect the necessary modifications. The interstellar drive engineers thought that they could do it, but their estimates as to the time required ranged from days to weeks. Obviously, as long as it was operating it would be of value to the enemy only.

So it was switched off.

There was only one method available to Craven to carry out the

pursuit-psionic tracking. He sent for his Psionic Radio Officer, explained the situation. The telepath was a young man, pasty faced, unhealthy looking, but not unintelligent. He said at once, “Do you think, Captain, that the other officers and myself are willing to carry on the fight? After all, we’ve made our point. Wouldn’t it be wisest to carry on, now, for Waverley?”

“Speaking for meself,” put in Baxter, who had accompanied Jane Pentecost to Control, “an’ fer any other Rim Worlders present, I say that now the bastards are on the run it’s the best time ter smack ’em again. An’ hard. An’ the tame time-twisters think the same as we do. I’ve already had words with ’em.” He glared at the telepath. “Our snoopin’ little friend here should know very well what the general consensus of opinion is.”

“We do not pry,” said the communications officer stiffly. “But I am willing to abide by the will of the majority.”

“And don’t the orders of the Master come into it?” asked Craven, more in amusement than anger.

“Lawful commands, sir?” asked Grimes who, until now, had been silent. “Shut up!” snapped Jane Pentecost.

“Unluckily, sir,” the young man went on, “I do not possess the direction-finding talent. It is, as you know, quite rare.”

“Then what can you do?” demanded Craven.

“Sir, let me finish, please. The psionic damping device-I don’t know what it was, but I suspect that it was the brain of some animal with which I am unfamiliar-was in the ship that was destroyed. The other vessel carries only

a normal operator, with normal equipment-himself and some sort of organic amplifier. He is still within range, and I can maintain a listening watch-“

“And suppose he listens to you?” asked the Captain. “Even if you transmit nothing-as you will not do, unless ordered by myself-there could be stray thoughts. And that, I suppose, applies to all of us.”

The telepath smiled smugly. “Direction-finding is not the only talent. I’m something of a damper myself-although not in the same class as the one that was blown up. I give you my word, sir, that this vessel is psionically silent.” He raised his hand as Craven was about to say something. “Now, sir, I shall be able to find out where the other ship is heading. I know already that her Mannschenn Drive unit is not working at full capacity; it sustained damage of some kind during the action. I’m not a navigator, sir, but it seems to me that we could be waiting for her when she reemerges into the normal continuum.”

“You’re not a navigator,” agreed Craven, “and you’re neither a tactician nor  a strategist. We should look rather silly, shouldn’t we, hanging in full view over a heavily fortified naval base, a sitting duck. Even so . . .” His big right hand stroked his beard. “Meanwhile, I’ll assume that our little friends are headed in the general direction of Waldegren, and set course accordingly. If Mr. Grimes will be so good as to hunt up the target star in the Directory . .

.”

Grimes did as he was told. He had made his protest, such as it was, and, he had to admit, he was in favor of continuing the battle. It was a matter of simple justice. Why should one shipload of murderers be destroyed, and the other shipload escape unscathed? He was still more than a little dubious of the legality of it all, but he did not let it worry him.

He helped Craven to line the ship up on the target star, a yellow, fifth magnitude spark. He manned the intercom while the Captain poured on the acceleration and then, with the ship again falling free, cut in the Mannschenn Drive. When the vessel was on course he expected that the Old Man would give the usual order-“Normal Deep Space routine, Mr. Grimes,”-but this was not forthcoming.

“Now,” said Craven ominously. “Now what, sir?”

“You have a short memory, Ensign. A conveniently short memory, if I may say so. Mind you, I was favorably impressed by the way you handled your armament, but that has no bearing upon what happened before.”

Grimes blushed miserably. He knew what the Captain was driving at. But, playing for time, he asked, “What do you mean, sir?”

Craven exploded. “What do I mean? You have the crust to sit there and ask me that! Your snooping, sir. Your violation of privacy. Even worse, your violation of the Master’s privacy! I shall not tell Miss Pentecost; it would be unkind to embarrass her. But . . .”

Grimes refrained from saying that he had seen Miss Pentecost wearing even

less than when, inadvertently, he had spied upon her. He muttered, “I can explain, sir.”

“You’d better. Out with it.”

“Well, sir, it was like this. I knew that we’d stumbled on the enemy-or that the enemy had stumbled upon us. I’d sounded Action Stations. And when you were a long time coming up to Control I thought that you must have hurt yourself, somehow . . . there have been such cases, as you know. So I thought I’d better check-“

“You thought . . . you thought. I’ll not say that you aren’t paid to

think-because that’s just what an officer is paid for. But you didn’t think hard enough, or along the right lines.” Grimes could see that Craven had accepted his explanation and that all would be well. The Captain’s full beard could not hide the beginnings of a smile. “Did you ever hear of Sir Francis Drake, Ensign?”

“No, sir.”

“He was an admiral-one of Queen Elizabeth’s admirals. The first Elizabeth, of course. When the Spanish Armada was sighted he did not rush down to his flagship yelling ‘Action Stations!’ He knew that there was time to spare, and so he quietly finished what he was doing before setting sail.”

“And what was he doing, sir?” asked Grimes innocently. Craven glared at him, then snapped, “Playing bowls.”

Then, suddenly, the tension was broken and both men collapsed in helpless laughter. In part it was reaction to the strain of battle-but in greater part it was that freemasonry that exists only between members of the same sex, the acknowledgment of shared secrets and shared experiences.

Grimes knew that Jane Pentecost was not for him-and wished Craven joy of her and she of the Captain. Perhaps they had achieved a permanent relationship, perhaps not-but, either way, his best wishes were with them.

Craven unbuckled his seat strap.

“Deep Space routine, Mr. Grimes. It is your watch, I believe.” “Deep Space routine it is, sir.”

Yes, it was still his watch (although so much had happened). It was still  his watch, although there were barely fifteen minutes to go before relief.  He was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life before. He was tired, but not unhappy. He knew that the fact that he had killed men should be weighing heavily upon his conscience-but it did not. They, themselves, had been killers-and they had had a far better chance than any of their own victims had enjoyed.

He would shed no tears for them. XIX

CRAVEN CAME BACK to the Control Room at the change of watch, when Grimes was handing over to Jane Pentecost. He waited until the routine had been completed, then said, “We know where our friends are headed. They were, like us, running for Waldegren-but they’re having to change course.” He laughed harshly. “There must be all hell let loose on their home planet.”

“Why? What’s happened?” asked Grimes.

“I’ll tell you later. But, first of all, we have an alteration of course ourselves. Look up Dartura in the Directory, will you, while I get the Drive shut down.”

Epsilon Sextans was falling free through normal spacetime before Grimes had found the necessary information. And then there was the hunt for and the final identification of the target star, followed by the lining up by the use of the directional gyroscopes. There was the brief burst of acceleration and then, finally, the interstellar drive was cut in once more.

The Captain made a business of selecting and lighting a cigar. When the pungent combustion was well under way he said, “Our young Mr. Summers  is a good snooper. Not as good as some people I know, perhaps.” Grimes flushed and Jane Pentecost looked puzzled. “He’s a super-sensitive. He let me have a full transcript of all the signals, out and in. It took us a little time to get them sorted out-but not too long, considering. Adler-that’s the name of the surviving frigate- was running for home. Her Captain sent a rather heavily edited report of the action to his Admiral. It seems that Adler and the unfortunate Albatross were set upon and beaten up by a heavily armed Survey Service cruiser masquerading as an innocent merchantman. The Admiral, oddly enough, doesn’t want a squadron of Survey Service battlewagons laying nuclear eggs on his base. So Adler has been told to run away and lose herself until the flap’s over . . . .”

“And did they send all that en clair?” demanded Grimes. “They must be mad!”

“No, they aren’t mad. The signal’s weren’t en clair.” “But . . .”

“Reliable merchant captains,” said Craven, “are often entrusted with highly confidential naval documents. There were some such in my safe aboard Delta Orionis, consigned to the Commanding Officer of Lindisfarne Base. The officer who delivered them to me is an old friend and shipmate of mine, and he told me that among them was the complete psionic code used by the Waldegren Navy. Well, when I had decided to take over this ship, I’d have been a bloody fool not to have Photostatted the whole damned issue.

“So that’s the way of it. Herr Kapitan von Leidnitz thinks he can say what he likes to his superiors without anybody else knowing what he’s saying. And all the while . . .” Craven grinned wolfishly. “It seems that there’s a minor base, of sorts, on Dartura. Little more than repair yards, although I suppose that there’ll be a few batteries for their protection. I can imagine the sort of personnel they have running the show-passed-over commanders and the like, not overly bright. By the time that we get there we shall have concocted a convincing story-convincing enough to let us hang off in orbit

until Adler appears on the scene. After all, we have their precious code. Why should they suspect us?”

“Why shouldn’t we be Adler?” asked Grimes. “What do you mean, Ensign?”

“The Waldegren Navy’s frigates are almost identical, in silhouette, with the Commission’s Epsilon class freighters. We could disguise this ship a little by masking the dissimilarities by a rough patching of plating. After all, Adler was in action and sustained some damage-“

“Complicated,” mused the Captain. “Too complicated. And two Adlers-each, presumably, in encoded psionic communication with both Waldegren and Dartura . . . . You’ve a fine, devious mind, young Grimes-but I’m afraid you’ve out-fixed yourself on that one.”

“Let me talk, sir. Let me think out loud. To begin with-a ship running on Mannschenn Drive can put herself into orbit about a planet, but it’s not, repeat not, recommended.”

“Damn right it’s not.”

“But we have the heels of Adler? Yes? Then we could afford a slight delay to carry out the modifications-the disguise-that I’ve suggested. After all, forty odd light years is quite a long way.”

“But what do we gain, Mr. Grimes?”

“The element of confusion, sir. Let me work it out. We disguise ourselves as well as we can. We find out, from intercepted and decoded signals, Adler’s ETA-and the coordinates of her breakthrough into the normal continuum. We contrive matters to be more or less in the same place at exactly the same time. And when the shore batteries and the guardships see no less than two Adlers slugging it out, each of them yelling for help in the secret code, they won’t know which of us to open fire on.”

“Grimes,” said Craven slowly, “I didn’t know you had it in you. All I can say is that I’m glad that you’re on our side.”

“Am I?” asked Grimes wonderingly,. suddenly deflated. He looked at the Captain who, after all, was little better than a pirate, whose accomplice he had become. He looked at the girl, but for whom he would not be here. “Am I? Damn it all, whose side am I on?”

“You’d better go below,” Craven told him gently. “Go below and get some sleep. You need it. You’ve earned it.”

“Jeremy,” said Jane Pentecost to Craven, “would you mind looking after the shop for half an hour or so? I’ll go with John.”

“As you please, my dear. As you please.”

It was the assurance in the Captain’s voice that hurt. It won’t make any difference to us, it implied. It can’t make any difference. Sure, Jane, go ahead. Throw the nice little doggie a bone . . . . we can spare it.

“No thank you,” said Grimes coldly, and left the Control Room. But he couldn’t hate these people.

XX

AFTER A LONG SLEEP Grimes felt better. After a meal he felt better still. It was a good meal, even though the solid portion of it came from tins. Craven’s standards were slipping, thought the Ensign. He was reasonably sure that such items as caviar, escargots, pƒt‚ de foie gras, Virginia ham, Brie, and remarkably alcoholic cherries were not included in the Commission’s inventory of emergency stores. And neither would be the  quite reasonable Montrachet, although it had lost a little by being decanted from its original bottles into standard squeeze bulbs. But if the Captain had decided that the laborer was worthy of his hire, with the consignees of the cargo making their contribution toward that hire, that was his privilege . . .? Responsibility?-call it what you will.

Jane Pentecost watched him eat. As he was finishing his coffee she said, “Now that our young lion has fed, he is required in the Control Room.”

He looked at her both gratefully and warily. “What have I done now?” “Nothing, my dear. It is to discuss what you-we-will do. Next.”

He followed her to Control. Craven was there, of course, and so were Baxter and Summers. The Captain was enjoying one of his rank cigars, and a limp, roll-your-own cigarette dangled from the engineer’s lower lip. The telepath coughed pointedly every time that acrid smoke expelled by either man drifted his way. Neither paid any attention to him, and neither did Grimes when he filled and lighted his own pipe.

Craven said, “I’ve been giving that scheme of yours some thought. It’s a good one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me. I should thank you. Mr. Summers, here, has been maintaining a careful listening watch. Adler’s ETA is such that we can afford to shut down the Drive to make the modifications that you suggest. To begin with, we’ll fake patching plates with plastic sheets-we can’t afford to cannibalize any more of the ship’s structure-so as to obscure our name and identification letters. We’ll use more plastic to simulate missile launchers and laser projectors-luckily there’s plenty of it in the cargo.”

“We found more than plastic while we were lookin’ for it,” said the engineer, licking his lips.

“That will do, Mr. Baxter. Never, in normal circumstances, should I have condoned . . .”

“These circumstances ain’t normal, Skipper, an’ we all bloody well know it.” “That will do, I say.” Craven inhaled deeply, then filled the air of the

Control Room with a cloud of smoke that, thought Grimes, would have

reflected laser even at close range. Summers almost choked, and Jane

snapped, “Jeremy!”

“This, my dear, happens to be my Control Room.” He turned again to the Ensign. “It will not be necessary, Mr. Grimes, to relocate the real weapons. They functioned quite efficiently where they are and, no doubt, will do so again. And now, as soon as I have shut down the Drive, I shall hand the watch over to you. You are well rested and refreshed.”

“Come on,” said Jane to Baxter. “Let’s get suited up and get that sheeting out of the airlock.”

“Couldn’t Miss Pentecost hold the fort, sir?” asked Grimes. He added, “I’ve been through the camouflage course at the Academy.”

“And so have I, Mr. Grimes. Furthermore, Miss Pentecost has had experience in working outside, but I don’t think that you have.”

“No, sir. But . . . “

“That will be all, Mr. Grimes.”

At Craven’s orders the Drive was shut down, and outside the viewports the sparse stars became stars again, were no longer pulsing spirals of

multi-colored light. Then, alone in Control, Grimes actuated his scanners so that he could watch the progress of the work outside the hull, and switched on the transceiver that worked on the spacesuit frequency.

This time he ran no risk of being accused of being a Peeping Tom.

He had to admire the competence with which his shipmates worked. The plastic sheeting had no mass to speak of, but it was awkward stuff to handle. Torches glowed redly as it was cut, and radiated invisibly in the infrared as it was shaped and welded. The workers, in their bulky, clumsy suits, moved with a grace that was in startling contrast to their attire-a Deep Space ballet, thought Grimes, pleasurably surprised at his own way with words. From the speaker of the transceiver came Craven’s curt orders, the brief replies of the others.

“This way a little . . . that’s it.” “She’ll do, Skipper.”

“No she won’t. Look at the bend on it!”

Then Jane’s laughing voice. “Our secret weapon, Jeremy. A laser that fires around  corners!”

“That will do, Miss Pentecost. Straighten it, will you?” “Ay, ay, sir. Captain, sir.”

The two interstellar drive engineers were working in silence, but with efficiency. Aboard the ship were only Grimes and Summers, the telepath.

Grimes felt out of it, but somebody had to mind the shop, he supposed. But the likelihood of any customers was remote.

Then he stiffened in his chair. One of the spacesuited figures was falling away from the vessel, drifting out and away, a tiny, glittering satellite reflecting the harsh glare of the working floods, a little, luminous butterfly pinned to the black velvet of the Ultimate Night. Who was it? He didn’t know for certain, but thought that it was Jane. The ship’s interplanetary drives-reaction and inertial- were on remote control, but reaction drive was out; before employing it he would have to swing to the desired heading by use of the directional gyroscopes. But the inertial drive was versatile.

He spoke into the microphone of the transceiver. “Secure yourselves. I am proceeding to rescue.”

At once Craven’s voice snapped back, “Hold it, Grimes. Hold it! There’s no danger.”

“But, sir . . . ” “Hold it!”

Grimes could see the distant figure now from a viewport, but it did not seem to be receding any longer. Hastily he checked with the radar. Range and bearing were not changing. Then, with relative bearing unaltered, the range was closing. He heard Jane call out, “Got it! I’m on the way back!”

Craven replied, “Make it snappy-otherwise young Grimes’ll be chasing you all over the Universe!”

Grimes could see, now, the luminous flicker of a suit reaction unit from the lonely figure.

Later, he and the others examined the photographs that Jane had taken.

Epsilon Sextans looked as she was supposed to look-like a badly battle-scarred frigate of the Waldegren Navy.

XXI

IN TERMS OF SPACE and of time there was not much longer to go.

The two ships-one knowing and one unknowing-raced toward their rendezvous. Had they been plunging through the normal continuum there would have been, toward the finish, hardly the thickness of a coat of paint between them, the adjustment of a microsecond in temporal precession rates would have brought inevitable collision. Craven knew this from the results of his own observations and from the encoded position reports, sent at six hourly intervals, by Adler. Worried, he allowed himself to fall astern, a mere half kilometer. It would be enough-and, too, it would mean that the frigate would mask him from the fire of planet-based batteries.

Summers maintained his listening watch. Apart from the position reports he had little of interest to tell the Captain. Adler, once or twice, had tried to get in contact with the Main Base on Waldegren-but, other than from a curt directive to proceed as ordered there were no signals from the planet to the ship. Dartura Base was more talkative. That was understandable. There  was no colony on the planet and the Base personnel must be bored, must be pining for the sight of fresh faces, the sound of fresh voices. They would

have their excitement soon enough, promised Craven grimly.

Through the warped continuum fell the two ships, and ahead the pulsating spiral that was the Dartura sun loomed ever brighter, ever larger. There were light years yet to go, but the Drive-induced distortions made it seem that tentacles of incandescent gas were already reaching out to clutch them, to drag them into the atomic furnace at the heart of the star.

In both Control Rooms watch succeeded watch-but the thoughts and the anticipations of the watchkeepers were not the same. Aboard Adler there was the longing for rest, for relaxation-although Adler’s Captain must have been busy with the composition of a report that would clear him (if  possible) of blame for his defeat. Aboard Epsilon Sextans there was the anticipation of revenge-insofar as Craven, Baxter, Jane Pentecost and the survivors of the ship’s original personnel were concerned. Grimes? As the hour of reckoning approached he was more and more dubious. He did not know what to think, what to feel. There was the strong personal loyalty to Craven-and, even now, to Jane Pentecost. There was the friendship and mutual respect that had come into being between himself and Baxter.  There was the knowledge that Adler’s crew were no better than pirates, were murderers beyond rehabilitation. There was the pride he felt in his  own skill as a gunnery officer. (But, as such, was he, himself, any better than a pirate, a murderer? The exercise of his craft aboard a warship would be legal-but here, aboard a merchantman, and a disguised merchantman at that, the legality was doubtful. What had his motives been when he volunteered-and as a commissioned officer of the Survey Service he had had no right to do so-and what were his motives now?)

He, Grimes, was not happy. He had far too much time to ponder the implications. He was an accessory before, during and after the fact. He had started off correctly enough, when he had tried to prevent Craven from requisitioning the Survey Service cargo aboard Delta Orionis, but after that .

. . after he and Jane . . . (that, he admitted, was a memory that he wanted to keep, always, just as that other memory, of the bright picture of naked female flesh on the screen, he wished he could lose forever.)

He had started off correctly enough-and then, not only had he helped install the purloined armament but had used it. (And used it well, he told himself with a brief resurgence of pride.) Furthermore, the disguise of Epsilon Sextans had been his idea.

Oh, he was in it, all right. He was in up to his neck. What the final outcome of it all would be he did not care to contemplate.

But it would soon be over. He had no fears as to the outcome of the battle. The element of surprise would be worth at least a dozen missile launchers. Adler would never have the chance to use her laser.

ADLER, REPORTED SUMMERS, had shut down her Mannschenn Drive and emerged briefly into normal spacetime to make her final course adjustment. She was now headed not for the Dartura Sun but for the planet itself-or where the planet would be at the time of her final-and fatal- reemergence into the continuum. The last ETA was sent, together with the coordinates of her planetfall. Epsilon Sextans made her own course

adjustment-simultaneity in time and a half kilometer’s divergence in space being Craven’s objective. It was finicky work, even with the use of the ship’s computer, but the Captain seemed satisfied.

The race-the race that would culminate in a dead heat-continued. Aboard the frigate there was, reported Summers, a lessening of tension, the loosening up that comes when a voyage is almost over. Aboard the merchantman the tension increased. The interstellar drive engineers, Grimes knew, were no happier about it all than he was-but they could no more back out than he could. Craven was calm and confident, and Baxter was beginning to gloat. Jane Pentecost assumed the air of dedication that in women can be so infuriating. Grimes glumly checked and rechecked his weaponry. It passed the time.

Dartura itself was visible now-not as tiny disk of light but as a glowing annulus about its distorted primary. The thin ring of luminescence broadened, broadened. The time to go dwindled to a week, to days, to a day, and then to hours . . .

To minutes . . . To seconds . . . .

Craven and Grimes were in the Control Room; the others were at their various stations. From the intercom came the telepath’s voice, “He’s cutting the Drive-“

“Cut the Drive!” ordered the Captain.

In the Mannschenn Drive room the spinning, precessing gyroscopes slowed, slowed, ceased their endless tumbling, assumed the solidity that they exhibited only when at rest. For perhaps two seconds there was temporal confusion in the minds of all on board as the precession field died, and past, present and future inextricably mingled. Then there was a sun glaring through the viewports, bright in spite of the polarization-a sun, and, directly ahead, a great, green-orange planet. There was a ship . . . .

There were ships-ahead of them, astern, on all sides.

There were ships-and, booming from the intership transceiver, the transceiver that was neither tuned nor switched on (but navies could afford induction transmitters with their fantastic power consumption), came the authorative voice: “Inflexible to Adler! Heave to for search and seizure ! Do not attempt to escape-our massed fields will hold you!”

The effect was rather spoiled when the same voice added, in bewilderment, “Must be seeing double . . . there’s two of the bastards.” The bewilderment did not last long. “Inflexible to Adler and to unidentified vessel. Heave to for search and seizure!”

“Hold your fire, Mr. Grimes,” ordered Craven, quietly and bitterly. “It’s the Survey Service.”

“I know,” replied Grimes-and pressed the button. XXII

HE NEVER KNEW just why he had done so.

Talking it over afterward, thinking about it, he was able to evolve a theory that fitted the facts. During the brief period immediately after the shutting down of the Drive, during the short session of temporal disorientation, there had been prescience, of a sort. He had known that Adler, come what may, would attempt one last act of defiance and revenge, just as Adler’s Captain or Gunnery Officer must have known, in that last split second, that Nemesis was treading close upon his heels.

He pushed the button-and from the nozzles in the shell plating poured the reflective vapor, the protective screen that glowed ruddily as Adler’s lasers slashed out at it.

From the speaker of the dead transceiver, the transceiver that should have been dead, roared the voice of the Survey Service Admiral. “Adler! Cease fire! Cease fire, damn you!” There was a pause, then: “You’ve asked for it!”

She had asked for it-and now she got it. Suddenly the blip on Grimes’ screen that represented the Waldegren frigate became two smaller blips, and then four. The rolling fog outside Epsilon Sextans’ viewports lost its luminosity, faded suddenly to drab grayness. The voice from the transceiver said coldly, “And now you, whoever you are, had better identify yourself. And fast.”

Craven switched on the communications equipment. He spoke quietly into the microphone. “Interstellar Transport Commission’s Epsilon Sextans. Bound Waverly, with general cargo . . .”

“Bound Waverley? Then what the hell are you doing here? And what’s that armament you’re mounting?”

“Plastic,” replied the Captain. “Plastic dummies.”

“And I suppose your ALGE is plastic, too. Come off it, Jerry. We’ve already boarded your old ship, and although your ex-Mate was most reluctant to talk we got a story of sorts from him.”

“I thought I recognized your voice, Bill. May I congratulate you upon your belated efforts to stamp out piracy?”

“And may I deplore your determination to take the law into your own hands? Stand by for the boarding party.”

Grimes looked at Craven, who was slumped in his seat. The Master’s full beard effectively masked his expression. “Sir,” asked the Ensign. “What can they do? What will they do?”

“You’re the space lawyer, Grimes. You’re the expert on Survey Service rules and regulations. What will it be, do you think? A medal-or a firing squad? Praise or blame?”

“You know the Admiral, sir?”

“Yes. I know the Admiral. We’re old shipmates.”

“Then you should be safe.”

“Safe? I suppose so. Safe from the firing squad-but not safe from my employers. I’m a merchant captain, Grimes, and merchant captains aren’t supposed to range the spacelanes looking for trouble. I don’t think they’ll dare fire me-but I know that I can never expect command of anything  better than Delta class ships, on the drearier runs.” Grimes saw that Craven was smiling. “But there’re still the Rim Worlds. There’s still the Sundowner Line, and the chance of high rank in the Rim Worlds Navy when and if there is such a service.”

“You have . . . inducements, sir?”

“Yes. There are . . . inducements. Now.”

“I thought, once,” said Grimes, “that I could say the same. But not now. Not any longer. Even so . . . I’m Survey Service, sir, and I should be proud of my service. But in this ship, this merchant vessel, with her makeshift armament, we fought against heavy odds, and won. And, just now, we saved ourselves. It wasn’t the Survey Service that saved us.”

“Don’t be disloyal,” admonished Craven.

“I’m not being disloyal, sir. But . . . or, shall we say, I’m being loyal. You’re the first captain under whom I served under fire. If you’re going out to the Rim Worlds I’d like to come with you.”

“Your commission, Grimes. You know that you must put in ten years’ service before resignation is possible.”

“But I’m dead.”

“Dead!”

“Yes. Don’t you remember? I was snooping around in the Mannschenn Drive room and I got caught in the temporal precession field. My body still awaits burial; it’s in a sealed metal box in the deep freeze. It can never be identified.”

Craven laughed. “I’ll say this for you. You’re ingenious. But how do we account for the absence of the late Mr. Wolverton? And your presence aboard this ship?”

“I can hide, sir, and . . .”

“And while you’re hiding you’ll concoct some story that will explain everything. Oh Grimes, Grimes-you’re an officer I wish I could always have with me. But I’ll not stand in the way of your career. All I can do, all I will do, is smooth things over on your behalf with the Admiral. I should be able to manage that.”

Jane Pentecost emerged from the hatch in the Control Room deck. Addressing Craven she said formally, “Admiral Williams, sir.” She moved to one side to make way for the flag officer.

“Jerry, you bloody pirate!” boomed Williams, a squat, rugged man the left

breast of whose shirt was ablaze with ribbons. He advanced with outstretched hand.

“Glad to have you aboard, Bill. This is Liberty Hall-you can spit on the mat and call the cat a bastard!”

“Not again!” groaned Grimes.

“And who is this young man?” asked the Admiral.

“I owe you-or your Service-an apology, Bill. This is Ensign Grimes, who was a passenger aboard Delta Orionis. I’m afraid that I . . . er . . . press-ganged him into my service. But he has been most . . . cooperative?  Uncooperative? Which way do you want it?

“As we are at war with Waldegren-I’d say cooperative with reservations. Was it he, by the way, who used the ALGE? Just as well for you all that he did.”

“At war with Waldegren?” demanded Jane Pentecost. “So you people have pulled your fingers out at last.”

The Admiral raised his eyebrows.

“One of my Rim Worlders,” explained Craven. “But I shall be a Rim Worlder myself shortly.”

“You’re wise, Jerry. I’ve got the buzz that the Commission is taking a very dim view of your piracy or privateering or whatever it was, and my own lords and masters are far from pleased with you. You’d better get the hell out before the lawyers have decided just what crimes you are guilty of.”

“As bad as that?” “As bad as that.”

“And young Grimes, here?”

“We’ll take him back. Six months’ strict discipline aboard my flagship will undo all the damage that you and your ideas have done to him. And now, Jerry, I’d like your full report.”

“In my cabin, Bill. Talking is thirsty work.” “Then lead on. It’s your ship.”

“And it’s your watch, Mr. Grimes. She’ll come to no harm on this trajectory while we get things sorted out.”

GRIMES SAT WITH JANE PENTECOST in the Control Room. Through the ports, had he so desired, he could have watched the rescue teams extricating the survivors from the wreckage of Adler; he could have stared out at the looming bulk of Dartura on the beam. But he did not do so, and neither did he look at his instruments.

He looked at Jane. There was so much about her that he wanted to remember-and, after all, so very little that he was determined to forget.

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Grimes, will you pack whatever gear you have and prepare to transfer with Admiral Williams to the flagship? Hand the watch over to Miss Pentecost.”

“But you’ll be shorthanded, sir.”

“The Admiral is lending me a couple of officers for the rest of the voyage.” “Very good, sir.”

Grimes made no move. He looked at Jane-a somehow older, a tireder, a more human Jane than the girl he had first met. He said, “I’d have liked to have come out to the Rim with you . . . .”

She said, “It’s impossible, John.” “I know. But . . .”

“You’d better get packed.”

He unbuckled his seat belt, went to where she was sitting. He kissed her. She responded, but it was only the merest flicker of a response.

He said, “Goodbye.”

She said, “Not goodbye. We’ll see you out on the Rim, sometime.” With a bitterness that he was always to regret he replied, “Not very likely.”

The End

Final notes on John Grimes

It's all fiction, but glorious fiction, and great fun. 

- Metallicman

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The Green Hills of Earth (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein

Here’s a really nice short little story to help get your mind off the craziness of day to day life. It’s a short science fiction story about a “spaceman”. You know, one of those old grizzly old “salts” that tended to the boiler and reactor rooms within those great 1940’s style “needle” spaceships. It’s a good and fun read. Enjoy…

The Green Hills of Earth

This is the story of Rhysling, the Blind Singer of the Spaceways — but not the official version. You sang his words in school:

“I pray for one last landing...

On the globe that gave me birth;

Let me rest my eyes on the fleecy skies And the cool, green hills of Earth.”

Or perhaps you sang in French, or German. Or it might have been Esperanto, while Terra’s rainbow banner rippled over your head.

The language does not matter — it was certainly an Earth tongue. No one has ever translated “Green Hills” into the lisping Venerian speech; no Martian ever croaked and whispered it in the dry corridors. This is ours. We of Earth have exported everything from Hollywood crawlies to synthetic radioactives, but this belongs solely to Terra, and to her sons and daughters wherever they may be.

We have all heard many stories of Rhysling. You may even be one of the many who have sought degrees, or acclaim, by scholarly evaluations of his published works –

  • Songs of the Spaceways,
  • The Grand Canal and other Poems,
  • High and Far, and …
  • “UP SHIP!”

Nevertheless, although you have sung his songs and read his verses, in school and out your whole life, it is at least an even money bet — unless you are a spaceman yourself — that you have never even heard of most of Rhysling’s unpublished songs, such items as…

  • Since the Pusher Met My Cousin,
  • That Red-Headed Venusburg Gal,
  • Keep Your Pants On, Skipper, or
  • A Space Suit Built for Two.

Nor can we quote them in a family magazine.

Rhysling’s reputation was protected by a careful literary executor and by the happy chance that he was never interviewed. Songs of the Spaceways appeared the week he died; when it became a best seller, the publicity stories about him were pieced together from what people remembered about him plus the highly colored handouts from his publishers.

The resulting traditional picture of Rhysling is about as authentic as George Washington’s hatchet or King Alfred’s cakes.

In truth you would not have wanted him in your parlor; he was not socially acceptable. He had a permanent case of sun itch, which he scratched continually, adding nothing to his negligible beauty.

Van der Voort’s portrait of him for the Harriman Centennial edition of his works shows a figure of high tragedy, a solemn mouth, sightless eyes concealed by black silk bandage. He was never solemn! His mouth was always open, singing, grinning, drinking, or eating. The bandage was any rag, usually dirty. After he lost his sight he became less and less neat about his person.

“Noisy” Rhysling was a jetman, second class, with eyes as good as yours, when he signed on for a ioop trip to the Jovian asteroids in the RS Goshawk. The crew signed releases for everything in those days; a Lloyd’s associate would have laughed in your face at the notion of insuring a spaceman. The Space Precautionary Act had never been heard of, and the Company was responsible only for wages, if and when. Half the ships that went further than Luna City never came back. Spacemen did not care; by preference they signed for shares, and any one of them would have bet you that he could jump from the 200th floor of Harriman Tower and ground safely, if you offered him three to two and allowed him rubber heels for the landing.

Jetmen were the most carefree of the lot, and the meanest.

Compared with them the masters, the radarmen, and the astrogators (there were no supers nor stewards in those days) were gentle vegetarians. Jetmen knew too much. The others trusted the skill of the captain to get them down safely; jetmen knew that skill was useless against the blind and fitful devils chained inside their rocket motors.

The Goshawk was the first of Harriman’s ships to be converted from chemical fuel to atomic power-piles — or rather the first that did not blow up. Rhysling knew her well; she was an old tub that had plied the Luna City run, Supra-New York space station to Leyport and back, before she was converted for deep space. He had worked the Luna run in her and had been along on the first deep space trip, Drywater on Mars — and back, to everyone’s surprise.

He should have made chief engineer by the time he signed for the Jovian loop trip, but, after the Drywater pioneer trip, he had been fired, blacklisted, and grounded at Luna City for having spent his time writing a chorus and several verses at a time when he should have been watching his gauges. The song was the infamous The Skipper is a Father to his Crew, with the uproariously unprintable final couplet.

The blacklist did not bother him.

He won an accordion from a Chinese barkeep in Luna City by cheating at onethumb and thereafter kept going by singing to the miners for drinks and tips until the rapid attrition in spacemen caused the Company agent there to give him another chance. He kept his nose clean on the Luna run for a year or two, got back into deep space, helped give Venusburg its original ripe reputation, strolled the banks of the Grand Canal when a second colony was established at the ancient Martian capital, and froze his toes and ears on the second trip to Titan.

Things moved fast in those days. Once the power-pile drive was accepted the number of ships that put out from the LunaTerra system was limited only by the availability of crews. Jetmen were scarce; the shielding was cut to a minimum to save weight and few married men cared to risk possible exposure to radioactivity. Rhysling did not want to be a father, so jobs were always open to him during the golden days of the claiming boom. He crossed and recrossed the system, singing the doggerel that boiled up in his head and chording it out on his accordion.

The master of the Goshawk knew him; Captain Hicks had been astrogator on Rhysling’s first trip in her. “Welcome home, Noisy,” Hicks had greeted him. “Are you sober, or shall I sign the book for you?”

“You can’t get drunk on the bug juice they sell here, Skipper.” He signed and went below, lugging his accordion.

Ten minutes later he was back. “Captain,” he stated darkly, “that number two jet ain’t fit. The cadmium dampers are warped.” “Why tell me? Tell the Chief.”

“I did, but he says they will do. He’s wrong.”

The captain gestured at the book. “Scratch out your name and scram. We raise ship in thirty minutes.” Rhysling looked at him, shrugged, and went below again.

It is a long climb to the Jovian planetoids; a Hawk-class clunker had to blast for three watches before going into free flight. Rhysling had the second watch. Damping was done by hand then, with a multiplying vernier and a danger gauge.

When the gauge showed red, he tried to correct it — no luck.

Jetmen don’t wait; thats why they are jetmen. He slapped the emergency discover and fished at the hot stuff with the tongs. The lights went out, he went right ahead. Ajetman has to know his power room the way your tongue knows the inside of your mouth.

He sneaked a quick look over the top of the lead baffle when the lights went out. The blue radioactive glow did not help him any; he jerked his head back and went on fishing by touch. When he was done he called over the tube, “Number two jet out. And for crissake get me some light down here!”

There was light — the emergency circuit — but not for him. The blue radioactive glow was the last thing his optic nerve ever responded to.

“As Time and Space come bending back to shape this starspecked scene, The tranquil tears of tragic joy still spread their silver sheen;

Along the Grand Canal still soar the fragile Towers of Truth; Their fairy grace defends this place of Beauty, calm and couth.

“Bone-tired the race that raised the Towers, forgotten are their lores, Long gone the gods who shed the tears that lap these crystal shores. Slow heats the time-worn heart of Mars beneath this icy sky;

The thin air whispers voicelessly that all who live must die — “Yet still the lacy Spires of Truth sing Beauty’s madrigal

And she herself will ever dwell along the Grand Canal!”

— from The Grand Canal, by permission of Lux Transcriptions, Ltd., London and Luna City

On the swing back they set Rhysling down on Mars at Drywater; the boys passed the hat and the skipper kicked in a half month’s pay. That was all — finish — just another space bum who had not had the good fortune to finish it off when his luck ran out. He holed up with the prospectors and archeologists at How-Far? for a month or so, and could probably have stayed forever in exchange for his songs and his accordion playing. But spacemen die if they stay in one place; he hooked a crawler over to Drywater again and thence to Marsopolis.

The capital was well into its boom; the processing plants lined the Grand Canal on both sides and roiled the ancient waters with the filth of the runoff. This was before the TriPlanet Treaty forbade disturbing cultural relics for commerce; half the slender, fairylike towers had been torn down, and others were disfigured to adapt them as pressurized buildings for Earthmen.

Now Rhysling had never seen any of these changes and no one described them to him; when he “saw” Marsopolis again, he visualized it as it had been, before it was rationalized for trade. His memory was good. He stood on the riparian esplanade where the ancient great of Mars had taken their ease and saw its beauty spreading out before his blinded eyes — ice blue plain of water unmoved by tide, untouched by breeze, and reflecting serenely the sharp, bright stars of the Martian sky, and beyond the water the lacy buttresses and flying towers of an architecture too delicate for our rumbling, heavy planet.

The result was Grand Canal.

The subtle change in his orientation which enabled him to see beauty at Marsopolis where beauty was not now began to affect his whole life. All women became beautiful to him. He knew them by their voices and fitted their appearances to the sounds. It is a mean spirit indeed who will speak to a blind man other than in gentle friendliness; scolds who had given their husbands no peace sweetened their voices to Rhysling.

It populated his world with beautiful women and gracious men. Dark Star Passing, Berenice’s Hair, Death Song of a Wood’s Colt, and his other love songs of the wanderers, the womenless men of space, were the direct result of the fact that his conceptions were unsullied by tawdry truths. It mellowed his approach, changed his doggerel to verse, and sometimes even to poetry.

He had plenty of time to think now, time to get all the lovely words just so, and to worry a verse until it sang true in his head. The monotonous beat of Jet Song — When the field is clear, the reports all seen,

When the lock sighs shut, when the lights wink green, When the check-off’s done, when it’s time to pray, When the Captain nods, when she blasts away — Hear the jets!

Hear them snarl at your back When you’re stretched on the rack; Feel your ribs clamp your chest, Feel your neck grind its rest.

Feel the pain in your ship, Feel her strain in their grip. Feel her rise! Feel her drive! Straining steel, come alive, On her jets!

—came to him not while he himself was a jetman but later while he was hitch-hiking from Mars to Venus and sitting out a watch with an old shipmate.

At Venusburg he sang his new songs and some of the old, in the bars. Someone would start a hat around for him; it would come back with a minstrel’s usual take doubled or tripled in recognition of the gallant spirit behind the bandaged eyes.

It was an easy life. Any space port was his home and any ship his private carriage. No skipper cared to refuse to lift the extra mass of blind Rhysling and his squeeze box; he shuttled from Venusburg to Leyport to Drywater to New Shanghai, or back again, as the whim took him.

He never went closer to Earth than Supra-New York Space Station. Even when signing the contract for Songs of the Spaceways he made his mark in a cabin-class liner somewhere between Luna City and Ganymede. Horowitz, the original publisher, was aboard for a second honeymoon and heard Rhysling sing at a ship’s party. Horowitz knew a good thing for the publishing trade when he heard it; the entire contents of Songs were sung directly into the tape in the communications room of that ship before he let Rhysling out of his sight. The next three volumes were squeezed out of Rhysling at Venusburg, where Horowitz had sent an agent to keep him liquored up until he had sung all he could remember.

UP SHIP! is not certainly authentic Rhysling throughout. Much of it is Rhysling’s, no doubt, and Jet Song is unquestionably his, but most of the verses were collected after his death from people who had known him during his wanderings.

The Green Hills of Earth grew through twenty years. The earliest form we know about was composed before Rhysling was blinded, during a drinking bout with some of the indentured men on Venus. The verses were concerned mostly with the things the labor clients intended to do back on Earth if and when they ever managed to pay their bounties and thereby be allowed to go home. Some of the stanzas were vulgar, some were not, but the chorus was recognizably that of Green Hills.

We know exactly where the final form of Green Hills came from, and when.

There was a ship in at Venus Ellis Isle which was scheduled for the direct jump from there to Great Lakes, Illinois. She was the old Falcon, youngest of the Hawk class and the first ship to apply the Harriman Trust’s new policy of extra-fare express service between Earth cities and any colony with scheduled stops.

Rhysling decided to ride her back to Earth. Perhaps his own song had gotten under his skin — or perhaps he just hankered to see his native Ozark’s one more time.

The Company no longer permitted deadheads: Rhysling knew this but it never occurred to him that the ruling might apply to him. He was getting old, for a spaceman, and just a little matter of fact about his privileges. Not senile — he simply knew that he was one of the landmarks in space, along with Halley’s Comet, the Rings, and Brewster’s Ridge. He walked in the crew’s port, went below, and made himself at home in the first empty acceleration couch.

The Captain found him there while making a last minute tour of his ship. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Dragging it back to Earth, Captain.” Rhysling needed no eyes to see a skipper’s four stripes.

“You can’t drag in this ship; you know the rules. Shake a leg and get out of here. We raise ship at once.” The Captain was young; he had come up after Rhysling’s active time, but Rhysling knew the type — five years at Harriman Hall with only cadet practice trips instead of solid, deep space experience. The two men did not touch in background nor spirit; space was changing.

“Now, Captain, you wouldn’t begrudge an old man a trip home.”

The officer hesitated — several of the crew had stopped to listen. “I can’t do it. ‘Space PrecautionaryAct, Clause Six: No one shall enter space save as a licensed member of a crew of a chartered vessel, or as a paying passenger of such a vessel under such regulations as may be issued pursuant to this act.’ Up you get and out you go.”

Rhysling lolled back, his hands under his head. “If I’ve got to go, I’m damned if I’ll walk. Carry me.” The Captain bit his lip and said, “Master-at-Arms! Have this man removed.”

The ship’s policeman fixed his eyes on the overhead struts. “Can’t rightly do it, Captain. I’ve sprained my shoulder.” The other crew members, present a moment before, had faded into the bulkhead paint.

“Well, get a working party!”

“Aye, aye, sir.” He, too, went away.

Rhysling spoke again. “Now look, Skipper — let’s not have any hard feelings about this. You’ve got an out to carry me if you want to — the ‘Distressed Spaceman’ clause.”

“‘Distressed Spaceman’, my eye! You’re no distressed spaceman; you’re a space-lawyer. I know who you are; you’ve been bumming around the system for years. Well, you won’t do it in my ship. That clause was intended to succor men who had missed their ships, not to let a man drag free all over space.”

“Well, now, Captain, can you properly say I haven’t missed my ship? I’ve never been back home since my last trip as a signed-on crew member. The law says I can have a trip back.” “But that was years ago. You’ve used up your chance.”

“Have I now? The clause doesn’t say a word about how soon a man has to take his trip back; it just says he’s got it coming to him. Go look it up. Skipper. If I’m wrong, I’ll not only walk out on my two legs, I’ll beg your humble pardon in front of your crew. Go on — look it up. Be a sport.”

Rhysling could feel the man’s glare, but he turned and stomped out of the compartment. Rhysling knew that he had used his blindness to place the Captain in an impossible position, but this did not embarrass Rhysling — he rather enjoyed it.

Ten minutes later the siren sounded, he heard the orders on the bull horn for Up-Stations. When the soft sighing of the locks and the slight pressure change in his ears let him know that take-off was imminent he got up and shuffled down to the power room, as he wanted to be near the jets when they blasted off. He needed no one to guide him in any ship of the Hawk class.

Trouble started during the first watch. Rhysling had been lounging in the inspector’s chair, fiddling with the keys of his accordion and trying out a new version of Green Hills.

“Let me breathe unrationed air again

Where there’s no lack nor dearth”

And “something, something, something ‘Earth’” — it would not come out right. He tried again. “Let the sweet fresh breezes heal me

As they rove around the girth Of our lovely mother planet,

Of the cool green hills of Earth.”

That was better, he thought. “How do you like that, Archie?” he asked over the muted roar.

“Pretty good. Give out with the whole thing.” Archie Macdougal, Chief Jetman, was an old friend, both spaceside and in bars; he had been an apprentice under Rhysling many years and millions of miles back.

Rhysling obliged, then said, “You youngsters have got it soft. Everything automatic. When I was twisting her tail you had to stay awake.”

“You still have to stay awake.” They fell to talking shop and Macdougal showed him the direct response damping rig which had replaced the manual vernier control which Rhysling had used. Rhysling felt out the controls and asked questions until he was familiar with the new installation. It was his conceit that he was still a jetman and that his present occupation as a troubadour was simply an expedient during one of the fusses with the company that any man could get into.

“I see you still have the old hand damping plates installed,” he remarked, his agile fingers flitting over the equipment. “All except the links. I unshipped them because they obscure the dials.”

“You ought to have them shipped. You might need them.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think—” Rhysling never did find out what Macdougal thought for it was at that moment the trouble tore loose. Macdougal caught it square, a blast of radioactivity that burned him down where he stood.

Rhysling sensed what had happened. Automatic reflexes of old habit came out. He slapped the discover and rang the alarm to the control room simultaneously. Then he remembered the unshipped links. He had to grope until he found them, while trying to keep as low as he could to get maximum benefit from the baffles. Nothing but the links bothered him as to location. The place was as light to him as any place could be; he knew every spot, every control, the way he knew the keys of his accordion.

“Power room! Power room! What’s the alarm?”

“Stay out!” Rhysling shouted. “The place is ‘hot.’” He could feel it on his face and in his bones, like desert sunshine.

The links he got into place, after cursing someone, anyone, for having failed to rack the wrench he needed. Then he commenced trying to reduce the trouble by hand. It was a long job and ticklish. Presently he decided that the jet would have to be spilled, pile and all.

First he reported. “Control!” “Control aye aye!”

“Spilling jet three — emergency.” “Is this Macdougal?”

“Macdougal is dead. This is Rhysling, on watch. Stand by to record.”

There was no answer; dumbfounded the Skipper may have been, but he could not interfere in a power room emergency. He had the ship to consider, and the passengers and crew. The doors had to stay closed.

The Captain must have been still more surprised at what Rhysling sent for record. It was:

We rot in the molds of Venus,
We retch at her tainted breath. 
Foul are her flooded jungles, 
Crawling with unclean death.”

Rhysling went on cataloguing the Solar System as he worked, “—harsh bright soil of Luna—”,”—Saturn’s rainbow rings—”,”—the frozen night of Titan—”, all the while opening and spilling the jet and fishing it clean. He finished with an alternate chorus —

“We’ve tried each spinning space mote And reckoned its true worth:

Take us back again to the homes of men On the cool, green hills of Earth.”

—then, almost absentmindedly remembered to tack on his revised first verse:

“The arching sky is calling

Spacemen back to their trade. All hands! Stand by! Free falling! And the lights below us fade. Out ride the sons of Terra,

Far drives the thundering jet, Up leaps the race of Earthmen, Out, far, and onward yet—”

The ship was safe now and ready to limp home shy one jet. As for himself, Rhysling was not so sure. That “sunburn” seemed sharp, he thought. He was unable to see the bright, rosy fog in which he worked but he knew it was there.

He went on with the business of flushing the air out through the outer valve, repeating it several times to permit the level of radioaction to drop to something a man might stand under suitable armor.

While he did this he sent one more chorus, the last bit of authentic Rhysling that ever could be:

“We pray for one last landing On the globe that gave us birth;
Let us rest our eyes on fleecy skies And the cool, green hills of Earth.”

The End

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Awesome Movies – The James Bond 007 classic – Thunderball.

How can movies stand the test of time? I really don’t know. But in my mind, this 007 James Bond flick seems to get better with age. There are so many things that I love about this movie. It’s just stunning.

This movie fits the public narrative perfectly. Men watch the movie as escapist entertainment where they can envision themselves in the same role. Shooting bad guys, seducing women, and looking good while going on exciting adventures all over the world, and riding in nice sports cars.

And, it’s true, too. Women feel the same way in the roles that portray the women as well.

Thunderball - this film's undersea battle is still rated among the top ones of all time - but I liked the "moments"- remembering how everyone on campus had a mink glove or access to one, after this film - fun memory.

And  how many of the "gimmicks" were brand new at the time - the amazing jet  pack flying suit is still a topic of conversation and excitement for  those who now chase the hoverboard;  and then neat "discipline" gimmick  for  the embezzling Spectre agent #9 

- and Domino's brother's lookalike  surgery,  and the bombs and their robbery, and the famous " Do you mind  if my partner rests here for a moment 

- she'd "Just DEAD" when the  villainess is shot by her own men aiming for Bond 

- and then Domino's  "  I killed him - I'm glad I killed him"  line when she gets Largo .  

A  perfectly perfect take from  " you killed him - I'm  glad you killed  him"  quoted from Melanie  in Gone with the Wind , to Scarlett, when   she shoots the home invading soldier as he tries to harm her - "right  between the eyes" as her paw would have taught her. 

- Elle Shopper Lady 

The pre-title credits sequence was set in Paris, France at the funeral of JB (SPECTRE operative No. 6, French Colonel Jacques Bouvar (or Boitier)), who had murdered two agents, Bond’s colleagues.

Bouvar had faked his own death (reportedly passing away in his sleep) and dressed up as his own widow (Rose Alba/Bob Simmons).

After the funeral and aware of the ruse/disguise, James Bond (Sean Connery) hurriedly followed her/him to his French chateau, where he fought and then strangled and broke Bouvar’s neck with a fire-poker (# 1 death, #1 Bond kill).

From the roof, Bond escaped by using his jet-pack rocket belt to fly him to his parked Aston Martin DB5 vehicle nearby, accompanied by French agent Madame La Porte (uncredited Mitsouko). He avoided pursuit by activating his car’s rear armored shield and rear-firing water sprayers.

Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
Thunderball has something for everyone. What woman would not be able to see themselves in this role? Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

The high-ranking SPECTRE No. 2 villain, white-haired, black eye-patch-wearing Emilio Largo (Adolfo Celi), was introduced in Paris, entering the building of the philanthropic International Brotherhood for the Assistance of Stateless Persons.

In a large, secret inner chamber, he met for a debriefing with unseen, ruthless Persian cat-petting SPECTRE No. 1 Ernst Stavro Blofeld (uncredited Anthony Dawson) and other SPECTRE agents – “a dedicated fraternity” of international terrorists.

While  I liked "Goldfinger" a little better, "Thunderball" is certainly a  solid, entertaining and worthy part of the James Bond franchise. This is  especially impressive considering this movie was made over 50 years  ago. In "Thunderball", it feels as though the elements of what makes a  Bond film a Bond film begin to emerge. While some things strain  credulity (by this film, the paradox of James Bond's renown as a secret  agent is becoming apparent), "Thunderball" does a nice job of capturing  the style of James Bond without completely abandoning a sense of  realism. And of course, the Bond women (eg, Domino), exotic locations  and cool cars don't hurt when it comes to coaxing an audience into  willfully suspending disbelief. 

- Norman Oro UCLA 93 

One of the agents, suspected of embezzlement, was promptly eliminated by electrocution in his chair (# 2 death) and disposed of into a hole in the floor beneath him.

No. 2, in charge of SPECTRE’s “most ambitious” NATO project, reported that his blackmail plan was a ransom demanded from NATO of $280 million/£100 million pounds – his assistant Count Lippe (Guy Doleman) was in the South of England making preparations, at a health clinic named Shrublands, near the NATO air base.

Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
Getting your top secret orders. Yikes! Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

Bond was also at the Shrublands for a rest-cure, receiving a massage from pretty blonde physiotherapist Patricia Fearing (Molly Peters), where he met Lippe and noticed a small, suspicious red tattoo on his left arm (a possible Tong sign – the Red Dragon from Macao).

Bond snuck into Lippe’s room where he found nothing, but was spotted by face-bandaged neighbor Angelo Palazzi (Paul Stassino), reportedly recuperating from a car crash.

During another appointment with Patricia, Bond forced an unappreciated kiss on her.

The  title says it all!  I've been a James Bond fan for many years, mostly  for the Roger Moore films but I do like the Sean Connery films, as well  and "THUNDERBALL" is one of them.  I love the film for the beautiful  scenery since a lot of the movie is filmed in the Bahamas.  I also love  the beautiful actresses that play in the film, especially Claudine  Auger, who plays Domino, the main Bond girl.  Boy, is she beautiful,  especially when she's in a bikini, underwater, snorkeling or scuba  diving.  

Those scenes made me resume swimming, completely submerged  underwater, now with a mask & snorkel.  I also like the wonderful  acting job of Sean Connery in his 4th film as James Bond  as well as the  supporting cast.  Also, praise goes to the crew on the fantastic job  they did in making this film, especially Terence Young in his 3rd &  final time directing.  Lastly, I love the fantastic underwater battles.   To sum it up, this is a terrific movie & I recommend it to every  James Bond fan out there because, believe me, you'll enjoy it! 

- Rob Holly 

She strapped him to a motorized traction table (“the rack”) to stretch his spine (she joked: “First time I’ve felt really safe all day”).

After she left, Count Lippe entered and turned the controls to the red danger zone to kill him.

Patricia saved Bond after he passed out. She asked for him to keep silent about the incident – his price for cooperation was her seduction in the Turkish steam bath room (# 1 tryst).

To retaliate, Bond sabotaged Lippe’s steam-bath cabinet and trapped him inside. In his room, Bond rubbed a soft black mink glove over the naked back of now sexually-liberated Patricia (# 2 tryst).

Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
In this movie we have all the elements of adventure. Weapons, romance, unique and unusual places, and a scheming evil genus. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

Meanwhile, NATO’s French pilot Major Francois Derval (Paul Stassino) was being seduced by voluptuous, red-haired ‘black widow’ mistress – a SPECTRE agent named Fiona Volpe (Luciana Paluzzi).

When he was leaving for the airbase, a look-alike Major Derval was outside his door, and sprayed him with lethal gamma gas (# 3 death).

The look-alike was SPECTRE agent Angelo, who had undergone plastic surgeries over two years to face-replicate and impersonate Derval.

He had also studied films, reports, and taken voice lessons.

He greedily demanded (or extorted) $250,000 rather than $100,000 to complete the task.

He appropriated Derval’s watch, ID disk, and bag, and departed for a training sortie at the NATO air base.

This  is my favorite Sean Connery Bond film.  Thunderball is loaded with  style, slick action, great stunts, beautiful scenery, beautiful women,  and Sean Connery.  

This film continued the practice of great opening  action sequence, a 'larger-than-life' villain in Largo/ AKA No. 2  (Adolfo Celi), a collection of vicious henchmen and woman - Count Lippe,  Fiona, Vargas and Janni (played by Guy Doleman, Luciana Paluzzi, Philip  Locke and Michael Brennan), an elaborate plot and a beautiful leading  lady (Claudine Auger who plays Domino)  Bob Simmons, the main Bond  stuntman opens the film as the villainous aCol. 

Jacques Bouvar AKA  SPECTRE No. 6 who is dispatched by Bond.  

The scape by jetpack sets the  stage for the great action film that follows.  Largo and SPECTRE have  downed a UN Vulcan fighter and stolen two nuclear warheads and hidden  them in the Caribbean.  

Bond must intervene before the UN pays a ransom  to SPECTRE.  Along the way, Bond romances, fights on land and  underwater, and finally squares off on a hydrofoil.  

The one change here  is that the villain is not killed by Bond - someone else (Domino)does  that that favor.  

The cast of British actors (Bernard Lee, Desmond  Llewelyn and Lois Maxwell) return as the MI-6 crew with Rik Van Nutter  playing Felix Leiter in this film.  

The hi-lights of this film include  the incredible underwater photography and action sequences, the  villainous and voluptuous Fiona, the Vulcan crash and cover-up, and the  incredible fight on the hydro-foil, the Disco Volante.  

There are two  quintessential Bond scenes: SPECTRE's HQ and MI-6' briefing room which  are a treat for all Bond fans.  

This loud, action-filled and very  entertaining Bond film raised the level that future Bond films would  have to meet.  This one is great! 

- Jaime Contreras 

“Derval” commanded a routine NATO flight of a Vulcan jet bomber at 45,000 feet, armed with two atomic bombs (MOS type).

As the noisy plane took off, Bond was still seducing Patricia with the mink glove, although they were interrupted when Bond left to snoop on Count Lippe – who was supervising the return of Derval’s corpse (face-bandaged to look like Angelo) in an ambulance back to Shrublands (it was later claimed that “Angelo” died of a heart-attack).

Bond unwrapped the corpse’s facial bandages, and then avoided a second attempt on his life by one of Lippe’s henchmen.

Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
James Bond interacting with the office staff. He always has such a way with the girls. You can tell, eh? Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

During the NATO flight, “Derval” took the co-pilot’s seat, gassed five other crew members with the lethal gamma gas canister (while wearing a separate oxygen supply/mask) (# 4-8 deaths), and deliberately crash-landed the plane near the Bahamas in the Caribbean.

Nearby, on his luxury hydrofoil yacht the Disco Volante (Flying Saucer), Emilio Largo ordered underwater lights switched on to guide the plane to its proper landing strip location, where it gently sank to the bottom.

Wearing scuba gear, Largo swam to the submerged plane, and cut “Derval’s” air-supply hose to drown him (# 9 death) (punishing him for his extortion demand), when he was trapped in his seat-belt.

From an underwater hatch, three of Largo’s henchmen took a submersible craft to the NATO jet to unload and transport the two massive thermonuclear weapons back to the yacht, and then covered the jet with a camouflage net to hide it.

We  just recently decided to delve into the Sean Connery James Bond films.  

We went into Thunderball appreciating that it was a landmark film in  terms of cinematography for the time; it's the only film I've seen that  outdoes 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea in terms of underwater  choreography. 

We also knew that Thunderball wasn't on any top ten Bond  films lists so we didn't expect too much from it, aside from  entertainment. 

It certainly delivered in that department and we were  swept away in an undersea adventure that was tastefully and masterfully  executed. 

I particularly enjoyed that Domino had a bit more complexity  than the standard Bond girl. 

It's not one of the best of the Connery era  but it's certainly a great entry and far, far better than the campy  nightmares that the Roger Moore films became. 

Even though many people  site Goldfinger as the best Bond film of all time, I actually enjoyed  this one a bit more.

-  ashbwell 

As the yacht returned to its base in the Bahamas, SPECTRE No. 1 ordered the execution of Count Lippe.

Bond was summoned away (to London), and bid goodbye to Patricia, promising to reunite with her “another time, another place.”

As he drove off, he was followed by Lippe – SPECTRE assassin Fiona also rode behind them on a rocket-firing BSA Lightning motorcycle. She fired two deadly missiles at Lippe’s car, which exploded and crashed, killing him (# 10 death), and then submerged her bike in a nearby lake.

Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
James Bond negotiating with a pretty evil chick who does not have his best interests at heart. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

In the British Secret Service conference room in an important briefing held by “M” (Bernard Lee), with nine 00- agents in attendance (including Bond), the group was told about recent troubling developments regarding SPECTRE’s possession of two NATO bombs.

A ransom of £100 million pounds sterling was demanded of the British government within seven days – otherwise, SPECTRE threatened to destroy an unspecified major city in either England or the United States (later revealed to be Miami).

To signal their cooperation with the ransom, the Big Ben clock was to strike 7 times at 6 pm the following day.

The problem was that there was no indication about where the Vulcan jet had crashed or landed.

There  is only one 007, and that is the Scottish actor, Sean Connery. Seeing  this one again over the summer was wild and wooly. Yes, they made movies  a bit differently in the early 60's, but that's ok. With 'Thunderball'  you get what you paid for. 

Relentless action, supercool  locations(Bermuda/Virgin Islands) and ultra sexy 'Bond Girls'. Alot of  the action scenes toward the end are all underwater. Connery has fun  with this installment, as the series was still new at the time. Who can  forget the 'shark scene'? This is first class entertainment, and far  from 'politically correct.'

Everyone who is cool in the film smokes  and drinks, as well. 

Connery appeared in a total of 7 Bond movies. This  one was so good, they re-made it in 1983 and called it "Never Say Never  Again"!  True Bond fans will rank this one high on their list. So sit  back, crack open a cold one and watch the remastered version on your  flatscreen. You will not be disapointed! 

- metalhead Ted 

The mission, code-named “Thunderball,” was to work with NATO, the CIA, and all allied intelligence units.

In the briefing packet was a picture of Derval with his sister Dominique in Nassau, Bahamas. Bond was specifically assigned to Station C (Canada), although he requested that his assignment be changed to Nassau.

Bond claimed that he saw the dead pilot Derval at Shrublands (although the situation was confused because Derval was also seen boarding the Vulcan), and he wanted to interrogate Derval’s sister Dominique, presently in Nassau.

With only four days to complete his mission, Bond quickly flew there.

Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
Everyone has to report and defend their actions to the higher ups. James Bond is no exception. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

While free-diving near Dominique “Domino” Derval (former Miss France Claudine Auger), Bond saved her from drowning when her flipper was caught in coral.

Bond and his own local dive assistant, bikinied native Bahamian Paula Caplan (Martine Beswick), faked a conked-out motor and Bond asked Domino for a lift to Coral Harbor, where he invited her for lunch by the pool.

The  film is different from the recent Bond films, but they are from a  different era and cannot be compared.  Sean Connery is absolutely  charming and charismatic.  Daniel Craig is equally perfect for the  modern 007 roles.

I love 60's cinema, the 70's less so, and the  80's just kinda stunk.  It's film's like this that make me love the  60's.  There are certain special effects that are available for modern  film that weren't around then.  There is a scene where Bond is escaping  with a rocket backpack and you can actually see the supporting cables.   This does not take away from the movie.

I won't give away any  plot points, but Sean Connery is what really makes this movie special.  I  admit to Daniel Craig being my favorite 007 agent, but Connery comes in  as a close second.  If you can tear  yourself away from modern effects  and try to appreciate this film (and the others) for what they are, I  think you will be pleasantly surprised. 

- J.AllenTop Contributor: Poker 

He learned that she was the bored, love-starved mistress/kept woman (“niece”) of a possessive “guardian” (Emilio Largo) who owned a yacht and an opulent estate on the island.

He knew her nickname was “Domino” – observed on a bracelet on her ankle.

At a party that evening in a casino, attended by Bond, Domino, and Largo, Bond challenged the villain to a game of cards (with raised stakes to 500 pounds) and won, then briefly shared a drink and dance with Domino, before Largo interrupted and invited Bond to dinner at Sunday noon at his private beachside villa-estate in Palmyra.

Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
James Bond always has so much fun, now don’t you think? Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

The next day, Bond was returning to his hotel room (#304), but avoided directly entering, and came through Paula’s adjoining room (#306) instead.

He listened to a tape recording, hidden in a hollowed-out Nassau Directory.

It had recorded someone’s entry into his room.

With a silencer in his hand, he answered a knock on the door from CIA agent Felix Leiter (Rik Van Nutter), punched him in the stomach to quiet him before he said 007, and also roughly dealt with Largo’s henchman Quist (Bill Cummings) – scalding him in his bathroom shower before sending the disarmed assassin back to his superior.

I  fondly remember this movie when seeing all the James Bond -Sean Connery  movies for free with my brothers up in the above theater balcony with  special seating as my father held a second job during that decade  (1960's and early parts of the 70's) as the Motion Picture Machine  Operator.I was pretty young though at the time (just 7 years of age).Dad  was also a Commander too in the long past before I was born just like  James Bond.

I especially liked the C.I.A. Fulton equipped B-17 Flying  Fortress 44-85531 in the movie and pointed that out to father after  watching it on cable television with him a few years before he passed  away in 2004 as he was an Aircraft Commander/Pilot of the B-17's during  World War II.Sean Connery as James Bond was a character that my father  and I too adored.

To me Sean Connery is James Bond and no other actor replaces him as that for me.

Seeing this again brings me back to happier times.
The DVD was shipped quickly and it plays well. 

- x9078ljk4+ 

At Palmyra, a disgusted Largo ordered Quist – after his failed mission – to be thrown into a swimming pool containing sharks (# 11 death).

Bond met with local MI6 ally-contact Pinder (Earl Cameron) and was taken to a base of operations behind a marketplace, where “Q” (Desmond Llewelyn) provided him with the latest multi-purpose gadgets, many for underwater use.

In approximately 55 hours, the British government was planning to drop the “blood money” ransom (off the coast of Burma) in the form of blue-white diamonds worth £100 million pounds.

Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
This is an old movie and the technologies are dated. However that in no way detracts from the movies. Instead, it only adds to it’s charms. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

At night, Bond donned scuba gear and swam under Largo’s yacht — where one of Largo’s sentry-frogmen discovered him and fired a spear-gun.

Largo watched Bond struggle underwater, after turning on lights and activating closed-circuit video cameras, and saw that Bond cut the man’s air-hose.

Largo ordered hand-grenades dropped on him as Bond was taking photos of the hull of the boat (with his infra-red camera).

Bond was stunned, but escaped unharmed, and evaded a search-boat – letting them think he had been killed by its propeller.

After he came ashore, he hitchhiked and was picked up by Fiona Volpe (wearing a ring with an Octopus symbol, similar to the one worn by Largo) in a light blue Mustang and speedily driven at 100 mph back to his Nassau hotel.

The photos were developed at Pinder’s base, revealing an underwater hatch beneath Largo’s yacht.

Bond guessed that Largo’s entire operation was concealed underwater, and that the Vulcan plane was submerged.

Another  excellent James Bond film looking at men of international crime.  A  very realistic villain emerges here in this fourth James Bond film.

 Bond's crime nemesis Emilio Largo has a seaside home in Nassau out of  which he runs a nuclear weapons theft operation.  His small crew are  able to conceal the warheads easily,  and almost escaped detection if it  weren't for Bond's excellent tracking instinct and bravery.

True  to the 007 film franchise formula,  this movie has all the gizmos and  equipment that 1950's and  60's Westerners were convinced would be in  high demand such as hydrofoils and jetpacks and that sort of thing.   Unfortunately the jetpack has fallen into disfavor as a mainstream idea.   Though a lot of the tech in Thunderball has  fallen into disfavor,  still it was very cool nonetheless to journey back through the era  before I was born and see how people embraced the future.

In  summary,  this 007 movie follows on the heels of other excellent ones  that set the bar very high. Also, the underwater photography and ensuing  action sequences are really excellent,  which adds immensely to the  enjoyment of the move.  

I would consider watching this again after a  short time just for the shocking diving action sequences the end of the  film alone. However,  there are other aspects of this movie that kept my  attention as well,  such as the feeling that Ian Fleming's work  inspires us not to underestimate the deviousness and creativity of  criminal minds.  

Though we sent a man to the moon, and are optimists by  nature,  the plot stays grounded in the reality that Bond almost doesn't  prevail at several junctures against a nuclear madman.  

To Fleming,  Broccoli,  and Saltzman's credit, they seem to convey an important  subtlety well: though the MI6 team thought failure was unimaginable,  it  also doesn't mean mission accomplishment was guaranteed, or failure is  impossible. 

- Aye Aye Captain! 

The next day (Sunday), a search by helicopter for the missing plane near Nassau was unfruitful.

While shooting skeets at Largo’s oceanside villa of Palmyra, Fiona vowed to assassinate Bond when the time was right: “I shall kill him.”

Later that day as a guest at Largo’s villa for lunch, Bond was shown around and also shot skeets.

Largo bragged about his pool with Golden Grotto sharks (“the most savage, the most dangerous”). Because he was busy, Largo also invited Domino to accompany Bond to the Junkanoo, the “local Mardi Gras” that evening, to keep him occupied.

A sex scene done properly. You do not need to show pornographic activities to titillate.  Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
A sex scene done properly. You do not need to show pornographic activities to titillate. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

Meanwhile, in her hotel room waiting for Bond, Paula was chloroformed and abducted by Largo’s goons (and Fiona).

The assassinatrix noticed Bond’s photos of the yacht’s hull. During the Junkanoo celebration that night, after learning that Paula had disappeared, Bond snuck away (Leiter kept Domino occupied) and infiltrated Palmyra, at the same time that Pinder had requested a power blackout to cut the electricity.

He located Paula being questioned by Largo’s silent, sadistic black-dressed henchman Vargas (Philip Locke) in an underground room.

Thunderball  is one of the best of the James Bond movies. Although it was filmed in  the 1965, the technology and action scenes still look good 50 years  later (I bought the DVD in 2017). In this film James Bond is played by  Sean Connery, who I think did the best portrayal of Bond. The plot  revolves around the stealing of nuclear bombs by Spectre, the nefarious  group that opposes Bond in several other of the films. 

The underwater  fight sequences are spectacular – even recent films have trouble topping  them. 

The Bond girl in this movie is played by actress Claudine Auger;  excellent casting. A classic Bond film throughout; much better than many  of the other Bond films. I think Thunderball and Goldfinger are among  the best two Bond films made. 

- Lee Gimenez 

When Bond attempted to rescue her, he was too late – she had already heroically committed suicide by self-administering a cyanide capsule (# 12 death).

As Bond fled, he shot one of Largo’s men (# 13 death, # 2 Bond kill) to get the group to shoot at each other, and engaged in a fist-fight with one of the men.

The two fell into a second swimming pool (Largo deployed the metal pool cover, and then opened a tunnel hatch to the other shark pool).

Bond stabbed his opponent in the gut (his bloody wound soon attracted the hungry sharks and he was consumed) (# 14 death), and then swam through the tunnel to narrowly escape.

Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
I can see me doing this. Can’t you? (Actually, I’ve done it many times, don’t ya know.) Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

After contacting Pinder and being driven back to his hotel, Bond found Fiona naked in the bathtub of Paula’s vacated room.

After making love with the “wild” woman (“You should be locked up in a cage”) (# 3 tryst), the two dressed up and planned to return to the all-night Junkanoo celebration.

However, Fiona (revealing her true identity as Largo’s assassin) betrayed Bond and held a gun on him, to escort him to Largo’s presence with support from other thugs.

After  the first three attempts, they finally got all the right ingredients to  making a great bond film. 

A Nato Vulcan bomber carrying two atomic  bombs has crashed in the caribbean, SPECTRE has informed the British  Government that they hijacked the plane's cargo, unless a ransom of 100  million is paid in seven days a major city in england or the U.S will be  destroyed. 

So MI6 calls in all it's agents, but only one will have the  lead. 007,  and awaiting Bond in the Bahamas is Fiona Volpe. 

A SPECTRE  executioner, she's the one who orchestrated the Vulcan hijack, as a  matter of fact, as she and Bond are dancing in a street cafe. 

One of her  men is about to shoot Bond, but he swings her around, and Volpe gets  shot in the back instead of Bond, a very deadly and sexy assassin. 

Paula  Caplain, she is another MI6 agent. But sadly Fiona Caplain and Largo's  men kidnapped her from her hotel room, and Bond was too late to rescue  her. Emilio Largo, SPECTRE number 2. 

Owner of a luxurious yacht, a  niiiiice house. And owner of the two missing bombs, and last but  certainly not least is Domino Derval. The sister of NATO pilot Major  Derval, she is also Largo's girfriend. 

But grows tired of his  overbearing ways, and soon becomes attracted to Bond. As a matter of  fact, she ends up being the one who kills Largo. 

This movie has it all,  the pre-title sequence. Where bond kills another SPECTRE agent, at a  funeral, then gets away via a jetpack. Bond also has his way with the  ladies, but is also decisive when need be, a cold blooded killer. 

This  movie doesn't focus on gadgets, but it does use them. Me personally, i  think this is arguably the better of the early Bond films. 

- Ben Milton 

But Bond escaped from their car when they were held up in festival traffic, although wounded in the lower right leg as he ran into the crowd.

He was chased through a carnival parade by five henchmen, and Fiona caught up with him at the open-air Kiss Kiss Club where patrons were being entertained by a female fire-dancer, and a bongo-band played.

As Fiona danced with Bond and asked him to surrender, while steering him closer to an assassin, she was shot in the back and killed by her own bodyguard (with a bullet meant for him) (# 15 death).

The Bad guy with the pretty seductress.  Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
The Bad guy with the pretty seductress. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

With only about 15 hours until the drop of the ransom, Bond took another helicopter search with Felix Leiter for the submerged plane, spotting something at a shark-infested location called the Golden Grotto.

One shark was shot to distract the other sharks, as Bond dove down with one scuba tank to investigate.

Inside the downed plane, he found the bodies of the dead crew members, including “Derval” (Angelo, the counterfeit NATO pilot).

Bond engaged in a second dive with Domino, an opportunity to become more intimate with her underwater (# 4 tryst) although discreetly hidden when they ducked behind some coral and bubbles exploded to the surface.

Later he commented: “I hope we didn’t frighten the fish” before kissing her.

She stepped on poisonous sea egg spines as they came ashore, and after treating her, he delivered the news of her dead brother Francois, and offered his dog-tag and watch: “It’s a long story and it involves your friend, Largo…Largo had your brother murdered, or it was on his orders.”

Of  the first four Bond films this one is a powerhouse from the get-go.   Even the pre-credit section gets you going with the music, the art, the  visuals.  Thunderball really put it all together for this franchise. It  was, and still is, literally a thunderball of a production.  Everyone is  included in this and everyone shows up and delivers.  There is a real  serial moving story here from beginning to middle to end.  From the Bell  Rocket Belt, to more of the Aston Martin, to the gadgets and sheer  style.  Who can forget "Huit pour la banque. Pass the shoe."  Bond has  been his best in the casinos.  It is a real education.

This  franchise has always been big on Fords, too, and used the hot car(s) of  the time such as the Mustang.  Part of the "special relationship" we  have had with our British cousins.

I did not see any AMPAS marks  on the jewel box, but there is no way this should not have won an OSCAR  in some category -- especially a whiz-bang technical category.

This surpasses the third very impressive installment, "Goldfinger," and is probably one of the best ever of the Bond Franchise. 

- lidz 

As Bond asked for her help and trust, he explained how hundreds of thousands of people might die.

He admitted he didn’t know when the bombs would be loaded on the Disco Volante, and wanted her to detect them with his geiger counter gadget.

Bond turned and shot Vargas (pointing a gun-silencer his direction) in the stomach with a harpoon gun, impaling him to a palm tree (# 16 death, # 3 Bond kill) (“I think he got the point”).

You might be cool, but you will never be as cool as James Bond.  Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
You might be cool, but you will never be as cool as James Bond. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

As she was leaving, Domino told Bond about a canal, a bridge, and a flight of steps that led into the ocean, on the far side of Palmyra – a perfect entry-point that Bond soon swam to.

He noticed SPECTRE diving gear stashed there, swallowed a homing device, and awaited darkness.

When Largo’s army of frogmen arrived, Bond knocked one of them out, stole his scuba gear, and swam with the group out to the yacht, where Largo ordered: “Once we pick up the merchandise, head for our target area, Miami.”

Their plan was to retrieve the bombs from a hidden undersea cave compartment with the submersible, and then threaten to detonate one of the bombs at a wreck near Miami.

During the retrieval process, Bond’s cover was blown (he was recognized by Largo), and he was forced to kill one frogman (# 17 death, # 4 Bond kill).

Trapped and stranded inside the underwater cave, Bond looked for an exit and emerged deep in an island cavern.

While  many rank GOLDFINGER as the best Bond ever, THUNDERBALL has always been  my favorite.  To me it had all the Bond ingredients (gadgets, lots of  sharks, the Aston Martin, scuba diving, gorgeous babes & plenty of  action) as well as a cohesive plot.  Spectre remains one of the most  formidable villains in Bond history, even after all these years.

The  underwater brawl between the Spectre divers and the Navy(?) divers  remains a classic climactic scene in all of the Bond movies.  I'm just  guessing that they were Navy (SEALS?) as usually Army guys are not  trained in scuba operations.

Connery's final Bond movie, NEVER  SAY NEVER AGAIN, was more-or-less a remake of THUNDERBALL.  There were a  few variations here & there, but the basic plotline & many of  the elements remained the same.  This goes to show just how enduring  THUNDERBALL was to the Connery Bond movies. 

-D. Roberts

Back onboard the yacht, Largo caught Domino using the geiger counter “toy” given to her by Bond and threatened: “There is no escape for you.”

He menaced her with torture unless she revealed the extent of Bond’s knowledge, but was called away to activate the bombs.

Onboard a Coast Guard search helicopter, Leiter used Bond’s homing device signal to locate him.

Bond also indicated his exact whereabouts with a red flare gun. A cable was lowered to him for rescue.

Bond warned that Largo’s target was Miami, and that one bomb was being transferred from the yacht to a wreck off Fowley Point.

Bond. James Bond. You might be cool, but you will never be as cool as James Bond.  Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
Bond. James Bond. You might be cool, but you will never be as cool as James Bond. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

With support from the CIA and the US Coast Guard aqua-divers in red (parachuting from planes into the waters around Miami), an intensely fierce underwater battle was fought near the wreck against Largo’s frogmen-henchmen (in black) (unknown number of deaths).

Bond joined the Coast Guard divers, wearing an underwater jet pack propulsion unit (with high-velocity exploding spear-heads) strapped to his oxygen tanks.

During the bloody struggle, he cut the air-hoses of a few frogmen and also speared one of them (# 18 death, # 5 Bond kill).

Yes, that's what Bond says to the just bedded villianess
once he's captured. You gotta admire the style of it.

Though a little slow at times expecially in the underwater
scenes this fourth Bond adventure is pushed forward
by the music, the cast, and great locations. 

Bond gets off
lots of good lines and the girl is especially beautiful.
The villian, Largo,is one off the top five baddies in the
series.

The title sequence is one of the best with Tom Jones
Giving his all and falling unconscious in the
recording booth after holding the last note of the hit
title song. Way to go Tom! 

- Paul Kyriazi 

Bond then removed his tanks, used his re-breather device, and detonated an explosive canister to kill three more pursuing henchmen within the wreck (# 19-21 deaths, # 6-8 Bond kills), and then helped to turn the tide in the battle.

Blood in the water attracted sharks to the scene, as Largo’s men were routed and then surrendered.

When Largo swam away with two of his remaining men, Bond killed one of them with a harpoon-gun (# 22 death, # 9 Bond kill), and pursued an escaping Largo to his yacht.

Underwater, Bond held on as the Disco Volante weighed anchor (with one stolen disarmed atomic bomb still onboard), but was under attack by cannon-fire from the US Navy.

Largo created a smoke screen and jettisoned his yacht’s rear cocoon to increase the speed of the separate hydrofoil. The cocoon section of the yacht, with a machine gun and deck cannon, exploded and killed all onboard (many deaths, number unknown).

Bond being the quintessential man. Bond. James Bond.  Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
Bond being the quintessential man. Bond. James Bond. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

During a life-and-death hand-to-hand struggle between Bond, three crew-members, and Largo in the hydrofoil’s cabin, Bond threw one crew-member overboard, and knocked the other two unconscious.

He was saved from being shot by Largo, when Domino (who had changed allegiances), was freed in her cabin by Kutze (who had disarmed the bombs), appeared from below deck, and harpooned him in the back with a spear (# 23 death).

Can  you imagine a film getting any better whether it is the women,the  villains,the locations or even the plot this one has got it all.One  might think it is outdated now but then look again this film is the  stepping stone to any action movie that is to be made in the coming  years.

Sean Connery stamps his signature yet again as James Bond 007  in the fourth installment of the Bond franchise.Director Terence Young  makes it more tongue and cheek than any other Bond movie.There is no raw  filth or even gore but the story is so perfect that it makes you forget  about its tiny if at all faults.

There are some memorable moments in  this film like the opening jet pack sequence,gunfight at Largo's house  during a blackout and the final underwater battle.Simply breathtaking  and proof of quality film making which today is seriously considered by  Jerry Bruckhiemer/Joel Silver and Steven Speilberg.

Adding to the  movie's good points is also John Barry's superb score which to this day  haunts me as it is quite memorable.I also took a great liking to the  leading ladies because they can not get any sexier to me.

The plot  revolves around Blofeld's organization hijacking nuclear warheads and  demanding a ransom.The beautiful location of the Bahamas a used  extensively where Bond tries to unravel the doomsday plot. 

- Anisha Dharmadasa 

(Domino: “I’m glad I killed him.” Bond (relieved): “You’re glad?”).

With Largo death-locked to the jammed steering, they jumped overboard to escape from the yacht’s explosion when it ran aground and struck a reef (# 24-25 deaths, # 10-11 Bond kills).

Kutze was left at sea with a life preserver, while in a yellow raft, Bond inflated a red balloon tied to a rope that was snagged by a US Navy Boeing B-17 plane with a skyhook, and the two held onto each other during their rescue.

Rescuing the girl. All in a day's work for James Bond.  Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
Rescuing the girl. All in a day’s work for James Bond. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

Film Notables (Awards, Facts, etc.)

The fourth film in the series. This was director Terence Young’s third and final direction of a Bond film. (He did not direct the third film, Goldfinger (1964).)

The code name for the MI6 mission, Thunderball, was also the film’s title.

This was originally intended to be the first Bond film but a series of legal disputes delayed its release.

This was the first James Bond film shot in wide-screen Panavision.

The film’s remake was Never Say Never Again (1983), one of the unofficial James Bond films. However, Sean Connery portrayed Bond in the film it was his seventh and final appearance on the screen as the character. He claimed it was his favorite 007 performance.

Lighting up a cigarette while the secret agent beside you has a gun trained on him. This is a scene you won't see today. It's usually the police pointing guns at you, and usually because you are smoking cigarettes. That devil stick!
Lighting up a cigarette while the secret agent beside you has a gun trained on him. This is a scene you won’t see today. It’s usually the police pointing guns at you, and usually because you are smoking cigarettes. That devil stick!

This was the only Bond film in which all nine 00- agents appeared together in London, England, where M summoned them to a briefing about SPECTRE’s plot.

Molly Peters (as Patricia Fearing) was the first Bond girl to appear nude (in silhouette) – in the steambath scene. And Martine Beswick, as Paula Caplan was the first Bond girl to appear in two Bond girls as different characters (she was fighting gypsy girl Zora in From Russia With Love (1963)).

With an Academy Award win, the second (and last win, to date) for Best Special Visual Effects.

With a production budget of $9 million, and gross revenue of $63.6 million (domestic) and $141 million (worldwide).

Thunderball had the highest domestic box-office earnings of the Bond films (to date) – when adjusted for inflation. Its domestic unadjusted gross of $63.6 million was $600 million when adjusted. Goldfinger (1964) was a distant second with $51 million (and $531.7 million adjusted).

I  wanted to watch the original early films of Bond, beginning with Dr.  No. It's great to see Sean Connery evolve from film to film to become, I  feel, the best Bond there ever was. 

I'm progressing in order from Dr.  No, to From Russia with love, Goldfinger, Thunderball, You only live  twice, Diamonds are forever, and the later semi-Bond "Never say Never  again". 

I know many fans of Bond dislike the last film Connery did, but  perhaps they were expecting too much from a then, pretty weathered,  franchise. 

I still have to watch the final two Connery films and am not  expecting too much from "Diamonds" and even less from "Never". 

But that  doesn't take away from the talent and artistry of Sean Connery and I'm  more into those last films to simply watch how he slowly bows out of the  James Bond role forever. 

It's sad film history to watch sometimes, but  I'd rather watch these first Bond films again and again than to tolerate  the works of Roger Moore and the others. 

Daniel Craig is a fresh  approach to the role, but he lacks the warmth and humor that Connery  brought to the role. 

I'd love to see one final film where Sean Connery  has taken over the position of "M" and guides newer agents along, making  them the best they could be. Sort of like an episode of "NCIS", I know,  but it would be entertaining to see, none-the-less. 

- Richard Behmer 
What's a James Bond movie without action and excitement? Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
What’s a James Bond movie without action and excitement? Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

Bond Villains:

  • Emilio Largo (Adolfo Celi)
  • Count Lippe (Guy Doleman)
  • Angelo Palazzi (Paul Stassino)
  • Fiona Volpe (Luciana Paluzzi)
  • Ladislav Kutze (George Pravda)
  • Quist (Bill Cummings)
  • Vargas (Philip Locke)

Bond Girls:

  • Patricia Fearing (Molly Peters)
  • Dominique (“Domino”)
  • Derval (Claudine Auger)
  • Paula Caplan (Martine Beswick)
Thunderball  is one of the better James Bond movies in the set of Bond.  I have  heard the rumours about the underwater fight scene being edited but in  my personal viewpoint still an amazing fight scene and very well filmed  for the movie.  

The movie plotline was actual very believeable about  stealing a weapon and holding it for a money trade off in exchange for  where the weapon is located.  

I also would like to add that I thought  Sean Connery was in one of his best phsyical shapes as James Bond base  on the fight scenes and action stunts unless they used a stunt man.  

I  thought every actor did a great job with what they had to work with and  the added benifit of the dance scene and all that music going on very  impressive turn out.  

I look forward to many more James Bond movies and  writing up much more reviews of them to come as I watch them.  So watch  this one with an open mind and make up your own mind weither you enjoy  it as much as me or not. 

- Jack D. Lowry  Top Contributor: James Bond 
After killing the bad guys, it's time to relax and enjoy the fruits of your efforts. Don't you think? Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.
After killing the bad guys, it’s time to relax and enjoy the fruits of your efforts. Don’t you think? Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

Number of Love-Making Encounters:

There were four love-making encounters.

Film Locales:

  • Paris, France
  • Shrublands Health Farm/Clinic
  • (and the) nearby NATO airbase in south of England
  • London, England
  • Nassau
  • The Bahamas and other surrounding islands
  • Miami, Florida
The bad guy with the beautiful chick. A James Bond standard.
The bad guy with the beautiful chick. A James Bond standard. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

Gadgets:

  • A Bell Textron jet pack rocket belt.
  • Devices in Bond’s Aston Martin.
  • Angelo’s/”Derval’s” separate oxygen supply and gamma gas canister.
  • Largo’s Disco Volante (with an underwater hatch, hidden video cameras) and his yellow submersible submarine.
  • A modified waterproof (underwater) Rolex watch with geiger counter.
  • An underwater infra-red camera for nighttime photos.
  • A miniature pistol that fired distress signal flares (bright red).
  • A miniature (pocket-sized) underwater re-breather device good for four minutes.
  • A harmless radio-active homing device in the shape of a pill.
  • An underwater jet pack propulsion unit with exploding, high-velocity spearheads.
  • A sky-hook.
Bad guys look great with patches, or monocles. Having a pretty chick in a nice slinky dress helps as does piles of money at a casino table.
Bad guys look great with patches, or monocles. Having a pretty chick in a nice slinky dress helps as does piles of money at a casino table. Thunderball is a classic James Bond 007 movies. It is a movie that has something for everyone, and ages well. It gets better with time.

Vehicles:

  • A silver Aston Martin DB5 (with rear armor shield, and rear-firing, high-pressure water cannon-sprayer).
  • Vulcan jet.
  • Hydrofoil Disco Volante.
  • A gold BSA Lightning Motorcycle (with missiles).
  • Domino’s Boehler Turbocraft dive boat.
  • Volpe’s light blue Mustang.
  • A Bell helicopter.
  • A US Coast Guard helicopter.
  • A US Navy Boeing B-17 plane.

Number of Deaths (Bond Kills):

There were a total of 25+ deaths in the movie, of which James Bond killed 11.

Conclusion

This is a great movie, and fantastic escapist entertainment for men and women alike. Childish millenials need not watch it, as they are far too easily offended by normal adult interactions.

"When arrows meet".
“When arrows meet”.

Not to worry, a transgender, role-reversal Bond flick is in the works. They will continue their narrative that White Males are the scourage of the universe, dumb, stupid and a bane on society.

Don’t waste your money on this new progressive propiganda. Enjoy these older flicks before they are banned from distribution. Because, if history is any indicator, they WILL be banned.

The New “modern, progressive” 007…

You can tell why liberal Hollywood selected her. If you morphed Hillary Clinton and Michelle Obama together, this is what the result would look like…

The new "face" of 007. She's modern, she's progressive, and she's LGBT friendly. She is the new woman that will lead America towards the social utopia as promised by the "great ones".
The new “face” of 007. She’s modern, she’s progressive, and she’s LGBT friendly. She is the new woman that will lead America towards the social utopia as promised by the “great ones”.

If you enjoyed this post, please check out some of my other posts in my Movie Index…

MOVIES

Articles & Links

You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.

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Ozymandias (poem) by Percy Bysshe Shelley

This is a most excellent poem.  In “Ozymandias,” Shelley describes a crumbling statue of Ozymandias as a way to portray the transience of political power and to praise art’s power of preserving the past.  I offer the readers to send a copy of it to their Congressman, as a reminder of their role in the larger picture of life and the universe.

I met a traveler from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”


If you liked this post, you can find other similar posts on this link here. It will take you to an index of similar posts of the same general venue.

Fictional Stories

Articles & Links

You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.

  • You can start reading the articles by going HERE.
  • You can visit the Index Page HERE to explore by article subject.
  • You can also ask the author some questions. You can go HERE to find out how to go about this.
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Introduction to the art of Kai Carpenter.

Kai Carpenter is a freelance illustrator and painter based in New York, United States who has created magnificent artworks with traditional gouache painting… His list of clients includes Wizards of the Coast, LEGO Systems, Anderson Design Group, and Harper Collins publishing. Let’s take a look at some of his amazing artworks styled in an Art Deco flair, these adventurous scenes are sure to inspire and bring a smile.

Kai Carpenter 0
Kai Carpenter is a freelance illustrator and painter based in New York, United States who has created magnificent artworks with traditional gouache painting.

Kai Carpenter’s elegiac scenes mine the myth and history coursing beneath the whole of human consciousness. Occupying the nebulous space between waking and dreams, his subjects hover just at the edge of our collective understanding.

Like figures emerging from mist, they are both seen and unseen, their presence more intuited than perceived. Carpenter’s portrayal of nature and the human form harkens back to the very roots of Western culture.

He embraces the ideals of the Romantic, offering art as a conduit through which we are meant to both contemplate and celebrate the mysteries of life.

Kai Carpenter 00
Kai Carpenter’s Paintings are driven by a love of drama and beauty —and their convergence in a great visual story. The Seattle-based Carpenter’s work is jam-packed with color and storytelling, so much so that you might assume these works are digitally created.

W hen it came to painting of Redwood National Park for an ambitious centennial art book, Kai Carpenter decided to “turn the saturation way up”—use bright exaggerated colors—with his palette of oil paints.

The Brooklyn-based illustrator hadn’t set foot in the park, but had been commissioned to paint a stylized rendition of it, along with 11 other parks.

After speaking with people who had been there and studied photos of the park, Carpenter thought a bold color scheme would convey the sheer size of the place. He conjured a giant redwood, drenched in red and burgundy, towering above two small travelers, with more giant trunks receding into the background.

Kai Carpenter 000
Early advertising posters from the 20th Century were pasted onto walls to grab public attention as busy people passed by. By necessity, good poster composition included bold color, contrast, iconic imagery and easy-to-read type.

“I was going for the look of old lithographs with those great color palettes,” he says. He referred to the early 20th century art deco travel posters, which featured happy couples exploring Technicolor versions of far-off locales: Visit Fascinating Fiji! Fly with Trans World Airlines! “And I was taking a lot of cues from the parks themselves, they’re already so vibrant.”

Kai Carpenter 0000
“I was going for the look of old lithographs with those great color palettes,” he says. He referred to the early 20th century art deco travel posters, which featured happy couples exploring Technicolor versions of far-off locales.

Five years ago, Joel decided he wanted to pay homage to the iconic Works Progress Administration posters, created between 1938 and 1941 for 14 national parks to encourage Americans to explore the great outdoors.

He started recruiting artists he’d worked with through his Nashville firm, Anderson Design Group, who generally specialize in that retro travel poster style. To achieve that look, most ADG art is hand-lettered and drawn or painted before it’s given a final polish on the computer. 

Kai Carpenter 5
Inspired by the stylized art of the early 20th century, artist Kai Carpenter has created original paintings that turn drama and beauty into great visual stories. Vibrant colors and well-crafted lettering add to the calendar’s retro style.

“We studied the WPA posters to make sure we were plowing new ground,” Joel says. “Luckily, the parks are so vast that it wasn’t hard to find new landscapes and color palettes.”

All 71 works in the book draw from styles that characterize the Golden Age of Poster Art: rich colors, hand-lettered text, timeless scenes like a cowboy in Saguaro National Park or a couple canoeing through the Everglades.

Kai Carpenter 6
“We studied the WPA posters to make sure we were plowing new ground,” Joel says. “Luckily, the parks are so vast that it wasn’t hard to find new landscapes and color palettes.”

Three weeks after completing all of the paintings in September, Carpenter and his older brother road-tripped from Brooklyn to Seattle, stopping over two weeks at three of the parks he’d painted: Zion, Yosemite, and Redwood.

“I was worried I was going to be devastated that I butchered all of these places,” he says. “But I was surprisingly happy with how they turned out.” Especially the Redwood poster: “I’m really glad that I went bananas with the colors,” Carpenter says. “It feels that way when you’re there. Like you’re maybe seeing something you’re a little too small to be seeing.”

Kai Carpenter 7
The Seattle-based Carpenter’s work is jam-packed with color and storytelling, so much so that you might assume these works are digitally created. However each one is effortlessly painted in oil on canvas.

The Seattle-based Carpenter’s work is jam-packed with color and storytelling, so much so that you might assume these works are digitally created. However each one is effortlessly painted in oil on canvas. 

Kai Carpenter 8
Five years ago, Joel decided he wanted to pay homage to the iconic Works Progress Administration posters, created between 1938 and 1941 for 14 national parks to encourage Americans to explore the great outdoors.

Inspired by the stylized art of the early 20th century, artist Kai Carpenter has created original paintings that turn drama and beauty into great visual stories. Vibrant colors and well-crafted lettering add to the calendar’s retro style.

Kai Carpenter 9
Kai Carpenter’s Paintings are driven by a love of drama and beauty —and their convergence in a great visual story.

KAI CARPENTER’S oil paintings use archetypal imagery to explore psychological themes. Drawing on a variety of influences both ancient and contemporary, his work invokes the storytelling ethos of myths, legends and fairy tales to express emotional realities native to dreams and memory.

Kai Carpenter 10
“I was worried I was going to be devastated that I butchered all of these places,” he says. “But I was surprisingly happy with how they turned out.”

Inspired by a collection of vintage citrus labels…

… reflect the art styles seen throughout 1900-1950 with an influence of the Works Progress Administration.

This period included persuading Americans to travel to the great outdoors as advertised by the automobile and railroad industries, and later influenced by the art boom of the depression.

Kai Carpenter 11
Kai Carpenter’s Paintings are driven by a love of drama and beauty —and their convergence in a great visual story.

Kai Carpenter’s Paintings are driven by a love of drama and beautyand their convergence in a great visual story. The Seattle-based Carpenter’s work is jam-packed with color and storytelling, so much so that you might assume these works are digitally created.

Kai Carpenter 12
This period included persuading Americans to travel to the great outdoors as advertised by the automobile and railroad industries, and later influenced by the art boom of the depression.

Early advertising posters from the 20th Century were pasted onto walls to grab public attention as busy people passed by. By necessity, good poster composition included bold color, contrast, iconic imagery and easy-to-read type.

Kai Carpenter 13
His amazing artworks are styled in an Art Deco flair, these adventurous scenes are sure to inspire and bring a smile.

Links

Art Related Index

This is an index of art that I have found profound, interesting, beautiful or enlightening. In any event, I find that art soothes my soul. I enjoy painting figurative and portraits in oils using the more traditional Flemish technique, but it never really brought me the kind of money I need to live off of. Such is the life of a painter today. Please enjoy.

An experiment of a bird in a vacuum jar.
Robert Williams
Todd Schorr
Mitch O'Connell
Greg (Craola) Simkins.
Mark Ryden
Alan MacDonald
Tokuhiro Kawai.
Jesus Helguera.
Michael Tole
Martin Wittfooth
Ania Tomicka
Bob Dob
Chris Peters
David Lebow.
Jason Limon.
Iva Troj.
Kisung Koh.
Kayla Mahaffrey.
Peter Ferguson.

Articles & Links

You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.

  • You can start reading the articles by going HERE.
  • You can visit the Index Page HERE to explore by article subject.
  • You can also ask the author some questions. You can go HERE to find out how to go about this.
  • You can find out more about the author HERE.
  • If you have concerns or complaints, you can go HERE.
  • If you want to make a donation, you can go HERE.

Introduction to the art of Alan MacDonald

There is a cool, quiet elegance to Alan Macdonald’s paintings, which belies the disequilibrium at their heart. His figures, grey eyed and dreaming, might be time travellers, drawing distant cousinship from the portraits of Rembrandt or Frans Hals. His bucolic northern landscapes lay claim to an equally venerable artistic heritage. But if an accretion of the art historical past informs his imagery, it is transposed into a world where confidence has been lost, where the spiritual beliefs and myths which once bound man to nature, and through nature, to the divine, fail to connect.

Alan MacDonald 1
Frequently, single letters or words, even meticulously copied dictionary definitions, are added to the sections of a painting, as if language might hold a key.

Frequently, single letters or words, even meticulously copied dictionary definitions, are added to the sections of a painting, as if language might hold a key.

We follow through the a,b,c, trying to piece together the jigsaw, but language proves as fallible as any system by which we structure our existence, and we are left with a series of miswired lexical circuits. Is a landscape “an area of land regarded as being visually distinct,” or is it “a painting, drawing, photograph etc. depicting natural scenery?”

Macdonald lets both definitions stand. Though he would not call himself a surrealist, like Magritte, he points up the ambiguities surrounding real objects and their images in art, encouraging us to consider his work as more than a simple pictorial narrative.

Alan MacDonald 2
Though he would not call himself a surrealist, like Magritte, he points up the ambiguities surrounding real objects and their images in art, encouraging us to consider his work as more than a simple pictorial narrative.

The otherworldly characters in his series of portrait heads have the look of forgotten pilgrims, bonneted and constrained by cords like the followers of some perverse form of Puritanism. Each is neatly titled according to a state of mind: hedonist, altruist, sadist. We read the titles and search their waxen features, hoping to discover their soul in the curl of a lip, or the tilt of a chin. Despite this attempt at self assertion the figures remain isolated, pinned down by their cords, as if by the codes and strictures of society.

These are beautiful paintings, all the more potent for their distilled sense of calm. Macdonald gives us no answers, but the questions he raises about the search for faith and identity in a difficult modern world touch a nerve, and in the faces of his pilgrims, we recognise ourselves.

Alan MacDonald 3
The otherworldly characters in his series of portrait heads have the look of forgotten pilgrims, bonneted and constrained by cords like the followers of some perverse form of Puritanism. Each is neatly titled according to a state of mind: hedonist, altruist, sadist.

It seems fitting that artist Alan Macdonald, born and brought up in Malawi, one of the least populated areas in South East Africa, now lives and works in a small town not too far from medieval Edinburgh, Scotland. His meticulously crafted images are emblematic of Scottish characteristics – love of nature, history, humour, beauty and surreal scenery – linked together in compelling enigmatic and sometimes foreign imagery.

Alan MacDonald Z4
His meticulously crafted images are emblematic of Scottish characteristics – love of nature, history, humour, beauty and surreal scenery – linked together in compelling enigmatic and sometimes foreign imagery.
" “It took me years to realize that it is the darkness in things that I  respond to, whether it is a painting by Francisco Goya, a song by  Leonard Cohen, a play by William Shakespeare or a film by Pedro  Almodovar. 

When I was a child living in Africa, I was outside on a night  lit by the moon and, feeling a little scared, I stepped from the light  into a dark shadow,” the artist told Tatha Gallery. 

“The darkness  wrapped itself around me and fear was replaced by an understanding that I  was being protected. Later, when I was twelve, a boy walked into my  classroom with drawings he had done in pencil. They were representations  of figures, that went from the white of the paper to the blackest black  that the graphite could muster, and from that moment the artistic light  for me was ignited.” 

-Alan MacDonald
Alan MacDonald A1
At the base of MacDonald’s work seems to be a need for adventure, exploring inspiration and varying perspectives in each work.

There is seemingly no element too exotic to inhabit an oil painting by Alan MacDonald, whose works traverse cultures and histories to present something always elegant in execution. At the base of MacDonald’s work seems to be a need for adventure, exploring inspiration and varying perspectives in each work.

Alan MacDonald 4
There is seemingly no element too exotic to inhabit an oil painting by Alan MacDonald, whose works traverse cultures and histories to present something always elegant in execution.
 Exhibiting in the United States and Holland,  Dundee-trained Alan Macdonald has clearly distilled his own unique  visual language in an impressive debut at Kilmorack. This is  sophisticated, visually literate work both in terms of technical  execution and multi-layered exploration of ideas, infused with humour  and defined with precision. 
       
While there are many art historical  influences to be seen in this work, Macdonald remains his own man, in  full knowledge of the canon, playfully seducing the viewer with  familiarity of style then subverting expectation of traditional  narrative. Displacement of elements; the surreal juxtaposition of  classical and industrial architecture, the adornment and status of  costume with utilitarian functionality and the presence of consumer  branding/ Pop elements in the same frame as traditions of historical  painting and portraiture thankfully never allow the audience to get too  comfortable. 

 -Statements by Alan MacDonald © Georgina Coburn, 2011  
Alan MacDonald A6
Often incorporating hyper-realistic contemporary popular culture objects and well-known phrases, Macdonald’s Renaissance style paintings are at once familiar yet strange, inviting close inspection as if asking us to solve an amusing, highly original puzzle.

Often incorporating hyper-realistic contemporary popular culture objects and well-known phrases, Macdonald’s Renaissance style paintings are at once familiar yet strange, inviting close inspection as if asking us to solve an amusing, highly original puzzle. Alan Macdonald acknowledges that, indeed, the solution can sometimes elude him; his skill is to give us hauntingly beautiful pictorial clues which tug on our psyche while making us smile, even laugh out loud while encouraging us to search for our own answers.

Alan MacDonald Z3
Alan Macdonald acknowledges that, indeed, the solution can sometimes elude him; his skill is to give us hauntingly beautiful pictorial clues which tug on our psyche while making us smile, even laugh out loud while encouraging us to search for our own answers.
The work is archetypally Northern in its  interior quality, the dark grounds and focussed illumination  reminiscent of Flemish masters, the looser paint handling, particularly  in the landscape backgrounds, akin to Dutch landscape and maritime  painting of the 18th century. The unforgiving choice of oil on board  makes the sublime delicacy of the painted surface all the more  impressive.
       
The beguiling Bullfighters Never know When To Quit  is an excellent example, a figurative group of seated male matador and  classical female nude with an attendant leopard at their feet, all  enigmatically focused on a scene beyond the frame. In the background  three blazing buildings infuse the contemplative stillness with  vitality, imminent danger and movement. This is contrasted with the  delicate play of light between three aspects of self, radiant and  luminous as a Titian Venus. The paint handling in this image is infused  with care and vulnerability, while the presence of a line of song lyric;  ”welcome back my friends to the show that never ends” provides an  ironic counterfoil to the conscious theatrical staging of the  composition. This humour is characteristic of the way in which Macdonald  visually stages his own subterfuge, an admirable quality in work with a  decidedly intellectual edge. 

 -Statements by Alan MacDonald © Georgina Coburn, 2011  
Alan MacDonald A5
The work is archetypally Northern in its interior quality, the dark grounds and focussed illumination reminiscent of Flemish masters, the looser paint handling, particularly in the landscape backgrounds, akin to Dutch landscape and maritime painting of the 18th century. The unforgiving choice of oil on board makes the sublime delicacy of the painted surface all the more impressive.
The tension in these works is  compelling, and their real beauty lies in the fluid nature of  association which imaginatively expands the mind of the viewer along  multiple pathways of interpretation. These are works not just of a  moment but of lifetimes, a real rarity in the world of contemporary art.  Macdonald’s skilful and intelligent manipulation of plastic and  ideological elements can be seen in the compositional strength of a  large scale work, Whims of Desire.
       
Here a young woman stands in the tiered  architecture of her black domed gown, tethered to something or someone  we cannot see, a number of openings in her skirt revealing a punch  spring, ball and chain, the unfurling script of a popular Joplin lyric;  “lord won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz”, a Magritte-like spoon and a  bouquet of white flowers suspended from her dress. At her feet a white  monkey eyes the open red “Kettle sweet chilli flavour” crisps packet in  her hand while she gazes past us impassively, a smile dawning in the  corner of her mouth. 

 -Statements by Alan MacDonald © Georgina Coburn, 2011  
Alan MacDonald Z2
These are works not just of a moment but of lifetimes, a real rarity in the world of contemporary art.
The elegance and restraint of her  clothing, symbolic presence of the monkey, together with the iconography  of burning buildings in the background convey psychological and sexual  tension. The composition itself is a powerful pyramid structure, aligned  with light, centring on her pale skin, white ribbon of script and rope  tether. Within this triangle are multiple triggers for the imagination.
       
In Venus On Wheels a codified  genre and its associative meanings are temporarily displaced by the  presence of a contemporary branded object. The Classical Goddess and  symbol of beauty of the title is being hauled on a cheap looking  trolley, the familiar striped design of a Tesco bag a Pop prop within an  image spanning multiple timeframes. The deep umber background of “dark  satanic mills” heightens the illumination of the consumer object and the  female nude. 

 -Statements by Alan MacDonald © Georgina Coburn, 2011  
Alan MacDonald A3
The tension in these works is compelling, and their real beauty lies in the fluid nature of association which imaginatively expands the mind of the viewer along multiple pathways of interpretation. These are works not just of a moment but of lifetimes, a real rarity in the world of contemporary art.
Luna is an intriguing and  ambiguous image of femininity, beautifully rendered. The head and  shoulders portrait is suitably enigmatic, aligned with the symbolic  associations of the moon and her phases, linked with the element of  water and tides. The three-quarters profile – like the trajectory of all  of Macdonald‘s work – conceals and reveals. There is implied  confinement in the twisted twine and safety pins which secure and tether  her costume in silvery textured gossamer blue, a hue to match her eyes.  Attached to one line of twine the script “fly me to the moon”  introduces a Pop element /humorous Sinatra twist to what initially reads  like an encoded Renaissance society portrait.
       
This is a fascinating show of  contrasting styles, raising expectation about potential developments in  Kilmorack’s regularly exhibiting artists and introducing an exciting and  dynamic new artist to the gallery’s audience. It is an absolute  pleasure to become lost in the multi-layered nature of Alan Macdonald’s  work, encouraging repeat viewings of this extraordinary show.
       
-Statements by Alan MacDonald © Georgina Coburn, 2011 
Alan MacDonald Z1
This is a fascinating show of contrasting styles, raising expectation about potential developments in Kilmorack’s regularly exhibiting artists and introducing an exciting and dynamic new artist to the gallery’s audience. It is an absolute pleasure to become lost in the multi-layered nature of Alan Macdonald’s work, encouraging repeat viewings of this extraordinary show.

Alan Macdonald considers his work a visual journey with a subtext of a sense of adventure and excitement but destination unknown. As he tells us… “There is the belief in every painting that one day, as you set sail, you will find a faraway beach on which to land, avoiding the ragged rocks and inky depths of doubt. On one of the luckier voyages you arrive somewhere that is strangely familiar but which you have never seen before. It is a distant coast of you”.

Alan MacDonald 5
While there are many art historical influences to be seen in this work, Macdonald remains his own man, in full knowledge of the canon, playfully seducing the viewer with familiarity of style then subverting expectation of traditional narrative. Displacement of elements; the surreal juxtaposition of classical and industrial architecture, the adornment and status of costume with utilitarian functionality and the presence of consumer branding/ Pop elements in the same frame as traditions of historical painting and portraiture thankfully never allow the audience to get too comfortable.
  It took me years to realise that it is the  darkness in things that I respond to, whether it is a painting by  Francisco Goya, a song by Leonard Cohen, a play by William Shakespeare  or a film by Pedro Almodovar. When I was a child living in Africa, I was  outside on a night lit by the moon and, feeling a little scared, I  stepped from the light into a dark shadow. The darkness wrapped itself  around me and fear was replaced by an understanding that I was being  protected.  Later, when I was twelve, a boy walked into my classroom  with drawings he had done in pencil. They were representations of  figures, that went from the white of the paper to the blackest black  that the graphite could muster, and from that moment the artistic light  for me was ignited.
       
A wise old German painter friend once  said to me, after seeing me floundering around trying to explain away  one of my paintings, “Remember, Alan, your paintings are like a bubble,  and a bubble with a hole in it is no longer a bubble.” So with that in  mind, I will tread carefully.  

 -ALAN MACDONALD  
Alan MacDonald A4
Alan Macdonald considers his work a visual journey with a subtext of a sense of adventure and excitement but destination unknown. As he tells us… “There is the belief in every painting that one day, as you set sail, you will find a faraway beach on which to land, avoiding the ragged rocks and inky depths of doubt.
 
Nothing pleases me more than when  someone laughs out loud whilst looking at one of my paintings. As  comedians are aware, humour is a subversive thing, breaking down  barriers and making others more receptive to your message or point of  view. Years ago, a particularly tired, world-weary man came into my  exhibition, with an, 'impress me if you can' expression on his face. He  trudged from painting to painting, unimpressed… that is, until he came  to a painting of a man covered in tattoos with a row of pins in his  forehead, called 'Masochist'. It caused him to burst out laughing! He  then went back and looked again at all the paintings he had just trudged  past, now taking his time and responding to them all. It confirmed for  me the importance of humour in art. 
       
All the shapes and forms my work takes,  have evolved over years. Painting clothes that resemble period clothing,  for example, happened naturally. At first because it just seemed right,  but I now realise that it brings to the work a sense of someone lost  and out of time, desperately trying to work out the universal question,  “What the hell am I doing here?”  Especially when modern items like a  can of coke or a scooter are included. Max Ernst once wrote that an  artist should have one foot in the subconscious and one in the  conscious. This, I think, is what I am trying to do.
       
-ALAN MACDONALD
Alan MacDonald A7
“When I begin a painting, I feel like I am embarking on a journey, one in which I have no idea of the ultimate destination. As a result there is a real sense of adventure and excitement as you set sail into the unknown, armed only with a belief that, one day, you will find a faraway beach on which to land. “
When I begin a painting, I feel like I  am embarking on a journey, one in which I have no idea of the ultimate  destination. As a result there is a real sense of adventure and  excitement as you set sail into the unknown, armed only with a belief  that, one day, you will find a faraway beach on which to land.  Unfortunately, too often, the ship founders on the jagged rocks of  doubt, leaving your heart to sink into the inky depths, from where you  have to resurrect it. On the luckier voyages, though, you arrive  somewhere that is strangely familiar, but which you have never seen  before. It’s a distant coast of you.
        
-ALAN MACDONALD
Alan MacDonald 7
All the shapes and forms my work takes, have evolved over years. Painting clothes that resemble period clothing, for example, happened naturally. At first because it just seemed right, but I now realize that it brings to the work a sense of someone lost and out of time, desperately trying to work out the universal question, “What the hell am I doing here?”

Alan MacDonald is a brilliant artist, and I would be proud to hang his art within my home.

Movies that Inspired Me

Here are some movies that I consider noteworthy and worth a view. Enjoy.

The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad.
Jason and the Argonauts
The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973)
The Abominable Dr. Phibes (1971)

Stories that Inspired Me

Here are reprints in full text of stories that inspired me, but that are nearly impossible to find in China. I place them here as sort of a personal library that I can use for inspiration. The reader is welcome to come and enjoy a read or two as well.

Link
R is for Rocket
Space Cadet (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Link
Link
Link
Correspondence Course
Link
Link
Link
Link
Link
The Last Night
The Flying Machine
A story of escape.
All Summer in a day.
The Smile by Ray Bradbury
The menace from Earth
Delilah and the Space Rigger
Any Friend of Nicholas Nickleby’s Is a Friend of Mine
Life-Line
The Tax-payer
The Pedestrian
Time for the stars.
Glory Road by Robert Heinlein
Starman Jones (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein.
The Lottery (Full Text) by Shirley Jackson
The Cold Equations (Full Text)
Farnham's Freehold (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Invisible Boy (Full Text) by Ray Bradbury
Job: A Comedy of Justice (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Spell my name with an "S" by Isaac Asimov
The Proud Robot (Full Text)
The Time Locker
Not the First (Full Text) by A.E. van Vogt
The Star Mouse (Full Text)
Space Jockey (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
He who shrank (Full Text).
Blowups Happen by Robert Heinlein
Uncle Eniar by Ray Bradbury
The Cask of Amontillado

My Poetry

My Kitten Knows

Art that Moves Me

An experiment of a bird in a vacuum jar.
Robert Williams
Todd Schorr
Mitch O'Connell
Greg (Craola) Simkins.
Mark Ryden

Articles & Links

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Introduction to the art of Mark Ryden.

Mark Ryden is an American artist based in California. He is said to have ushered in the new genre of painting and Pop Surrealism, into mainstream art culture. His style, which is reminiscent of the works of the Old Masters, has blurred the traditional boundaries between high and low art. Though inspired by surrealist techniques, he has filled his work with cultural connotations. His work is both mystical and realistic, innocent and eerie. The bright colors and childlike figures on the surface hide a darker, mysterious psyche. His paintings are meticulous and full of detail, with each detail having a significant importance.

Mark Ryden 0
Mark Ryden is an American artist based in California. He is said to have ushered in the new genre of painting and Pop Surrealism, into mainstream art culture.
Mark Ryden. The painter Mark Ryden is one of the prominent representatives of the Lowbrow art movement, which is also called Surrealist Pop. 

- Mark Ryden - 42 artworks - WikiArt.org 
Tell me a bit about yourself? How did you life in art begin?

M.R.: I spent  the vast majority of my time as a youth drawing and painting. I was also  very interested in math and science, but art was my main love.  In  college, I pursued illustration because I didn’t see myself fitting it  with what was happening in the fine art world of the 1980s. I had a  passion for classical art, figuration, surrealism, and imagination.  These subjects were all but banned from what I saw as a dry and dull art  world at that time.  For a decade I did commercial work, but things  started to change dramatically in the 1990s.  I found myself part of the  fresh exciting art movement of Pop Surrealism. 
Mark Ryden 1
“I spent the vast majority of my time as a youth drawing and painting. I was also very interested in math and science, but art was my main love. In college, I pursued illustration because I didn’t see myself fitting it with what was happening in the fine art world of the 1980s.”

Dressed in black with round, wire-rimmed glasses, a black fedora and a silvery goatee, the Pop Surrealist looks like a magical wizard as he surveys the fantastical haven of desserts he’s created for American Ballet Theatre’s new production of “Whipped Cream.”

It was quite the spectacle. It was his paintings brought to life.

Mark Ryden 2
” I had a passion for classical art, figuration, surrealism, and imagination. These subjects were all but banned from what I saw as a dry and dull art world at that time. For a decade I did commercial work, but things started to change dramatically in the 1990s. I found myself part of the fresh exciting art movement of Pop Surrealism. “

Ginormous sugary confections glint under draping stage lights: velvety swirls of sugar plum pastry, strawberry-topped cupcakes, powder-coated chocolate drops and glossy, melon-sized gum balls. Theatrical technicians, like Willy Wonka factory workers, scramble around the artist.

Stage hands roll towering peaks of whipped cream across the floor on dollies while prop artists affix Swarovski crystals to vanilla-iced tarts.

Mark Ryden 3
Mark Ryden was born in Medford Oregon. He received a BFA in 1987 from Art Center College of Design in Pasadena. He currently lives and works in Los Angeles where he paints slowly and happily amidst his countless collections of trinkets, statues, skeletons, books, paintings and antique toys.

“C’mere,” Ryden beckons, slipping behind a cotton candy-pink dessert counter, a proverbial kid in his self-conjured candy store. The black backside of the giant set piece exposes the infrastructure behind the magic — ladders and trap doors that the dancers scurry up and through.

“It’s all these details,” Ryden says, showing off the underside of a monstrous tin coffee can that one of the characters pops out of. “We had to make these openings big enough for the dancers’ tutus to get through.”

Mark Ryden 4
“I believe if an artist consciously attempts to develop a “style” that art will be hollow and superficial. An artist’s work has to develop more honestly and naturally. I think my work is simply the result of the subconscious accumulation of everything I am interested in.”
How did you develop your style or aesthetic?

M.R.: I  believe if an artist consciously attempts to develop a “style” that art  will be hollow and superficial. An artist’s work has to develop more  honestly and naturally. I think my work is simply the result of the  subconscious accumulation of everything I am interested in. I try not to  judge any particular inspiration as being more valid than another. I  can let an Old Masters painting influence me just as much as a vintage  cartoon. 

Ryden, nicknamed the “godfather of Pop Surrealism” by Interview magazine, is known for his kitschy, brightly colored paintings blending pop culture elements and old master techniques for a glossy, danger-tinged, fairy-tale-like aesthetic. His first European retrospective, at the Centro de Arte Contemporáneo de Málaga in Spain, closed on March 5.

Mark Ryden 5
Ryden, nicknamed the “godfather of Pop Surrealism” by Interview magazine, is known for his kitschy, brightly colored paintings blending pop culture elements and old master techniques for a glossy, danger-tinged, fairy-tale-like aesthetic.
Can you describe your working process from idea to finished product?

M.R.: I start  by looking at the things I surround myself that inspire me. I can’t move  forward in any way if I don’t feel a strong spark of excitement or  creativity. It’s important to be in a peaceful state of mind and then I  invite the spirits to come into the studio. I don’t stare into a blank  canvas or paper. I look through my various collections of books, toys,  statues, photographs and other things, and something will trigger an  idea. I will make many, very loose sketches. Eventually I will be forced  to pick something to take further. The decision is difficult because I  can’t make that many finished paintings.  They are meticulously painted  and take a very long time to create. 
Mark Ryden 6
“I start by looking at the things I surround myself that inspire me. I can’t move forward in any way if I don’t feel a strong spark of excitement or creativity. It’s important to be in a peaceful state of mind and then I invite the spirits to come into the studio.”

Ryden, who launched his career designing book and album covers, including Michael Jackson’s “Dangerous,” did more than simply design the costumes and backdrops though. His cutesy, seemingly saccharine style with a darkly humorous, Tim Burton-like twist inspired the creation of the production.

There’s something very unsettling, disturbing, about his paintings, which hides behind the sometimes very sweet surface.”
              
-Alexei Ratmansky           
Mark Ryden 7
“His style is completely original, it’s very precise and detailed. He uses classical techniques, but the story he tells is very contemporary,”

“His style is completely original, it’s very precise and detailed. He uses classical techniques, but the story he tells is very contemporary,” Ratmansky says. “There’s something very unsettling, disturbing, about his paintings, which hides behind the sometimes very sweet surface. I just thought it was a good fit for the music and that it would make this 1920s work feel contemporary.”

What are the various challenges you face?

M.R.: My  biggest challenge is managing my time. There are some many paintings and  various projects that I want to do, but I can only do so many things.  I  often try to do too much. The business and logistical side of being an  artist can swallow up all my time if I am not diligent to prevent it.  I  spend too much time with email. I hate email. 
Mark Ryden 8
Over the past decade, this marriage of accessibility, craftsmanship and technique with social relevance, emotional resonance and cultural reference has catapulted Ryden beyond his roots and to the attention of museums, critics and serious collectors. Ryden’s work has been exhibited in museums and galleries worldwide, including a recent museum retrospective “Wondertoonel” at the Frye Museum of Art in Seattle and Pasadena Museum of.

Ryden typically works solo, painting on flat canvases in his Portland, Ore., studio. He and his wife, the artist Marion Peck, moved there last year after Ryden had spent 35 years in L.A.

What kind of narratives or stories do you like to convey through your work?

M.R.: I don’t  attempt to convey any of my own stories or narratives, instead I like  that my work can trigger the viewer to imagine their own narrative or  story. For me, the meaning of a painting can’t be described with words  or a story. Instead it is the image itself that is the meaning. I choose  to work with figures that carry iconic power, but I like to leave the  mystery undisturbed. I leave it to the viewer to interpret the images  how they will. 
Mark Ryden 9
Mark Ryden is a veteran of the Pop-Surrealism style, having been at the forefront of this genre since the late 1990’s when it was first taking roots in the artistic community.

Mark Ryden is a veteran of the Pop-Surrealism style, having been at the forefront of this genre since the late 1990’s when it was first taking roots in the artistic community. A curiosity cabinet personified, Mark Ryden’s works are often presented in thematic groups where one major theme is explored throughout the series, further interacting with Ryden’s main influences, including: Post world-war toys to historical figures such as Abraham Lincoln, meat, dogma, religion and symbolism, and into numerology, mysticism and occultism.

Ryden’s primary medium is oil on canvas or panel, with each piece beautifully and precisely encased in its own unique frame, many of which are original designs by Mark Ryden himself, with the remainder coming from restored antique frames. The frames are an artwork of and to themselves, and when married with the artwork, transports the viewer through the looking-glass and into a most surreal vision of the 19th century.

Mark Ryden 10
Mark Ryden’s works are often presented in thematic groups where one major theme is explored throughout the series, further interacting with Ryden’s main influences, including: Post world-war toys to historical figures such as Abraham Lincoln, meat, dogma, religion and symbolism, and into numerology, mysticism and occultism.
What would you cite as your inspirations behind your work? 

M.R.: Inspiration  is the most valuable commodity for an artist; it is for me anyway. My  studio is packed full of things that inspire me. I live inside my own  cabinet of curiosities. My studio and house are overflowing with stuff. I  regularly go to flea markets and antique shops where I have amassed a  variety of things that inspire me. I collect everything from old  children’s books, interesting product packages, to toys, photographs,  medical models, skeletons, shells, minerals, and religious statues. I  also have an extensive collection of books on shelves that go all the  way up to the high ceiling behind my easel and drawing table. I think it  is the range of diversity of my inspirations that most defines my art. 
Mark Ryden 11
Ryden’s primary medium is oil on canvas or panel, with each piece beautifully and precisely encased in its own unique frame, many of which are original designs by Mark Ryden himself, with the remainder coming from restored antique frames.

Artworks from Ryden’s 1998 “The Meat Show” series contemplate meat and the idea that we, stripped of our humanity, are ourselves meaty creations. Ryden also explores the relationship we have to meat as food, in comparison to the living creatures the meat was originally taken from, and also how the viewing of meat has changed over the centuries to a point where to see it depicted in contemporary artwork is almost absurd and strange. Such is our modern-day relationship with meat in much of western society.

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““I believe to get ideas you have to nourish the spirit. I stuff myself full of the things I like: pictures of bugs, paintings by Bouguereau and David, books about Pheneous T. Barnum, films by Ray Harryhausen, old photographs of strange people, children’s books about space and science, medical illustrations, music by Frank Sinatra and Debussy, magazines, T.V., Jung and Freud, Ren and Stimpy, Joseph Campbell and Nostradamus, Ken and Barbie, Alchemy, Freemasonary, Buddhism. “

“I believe to get ideas you have to nourish the spirit. I stuff myself full of the things I like: pictures of bugs, paintings by Bouguereau and David, books about Pheneous T. Barnum, films by Ray Harryhausen, old photographs of strange people, children’s books about space and science, medical illustrations, music by Frank Sinatra and Debussy, magazines, T.V., Jung and Freud, Ren and Stimpy, Joseph Campbell and Nostradamus, Ken and Barbie, Alchemy, Freemasonary, Buddhism. At night my head is so full of ideas I can’t sleep. I mix it all together and create my own doctrine of life and the universe. To me, certain things seem to fit together. There are certain parallels and clues all over the place. There may be a little part of Alice in Wonderland that fits in. Charles Darwin, and Colonel Sanders provide pieces. To me the world is full of awe and wonder. This is what I put in my paintings.”

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“I admire and have been influenced by countless artists. Most are from long ago such as Carpaccio and Bronzino from the early Italian Renaissance. I like Northern Dutch artists like Van Eyck and the later French academic painters David, Gérôme and Ingres.”
Which artists do you admire? How have they influenced you?

M.R.: I admire and have been influenced by  countless artists.  Most are from long ago such as Carpaccio and  Bronzino from the early Italian Renaissance. I like Northern Dutch  artists like Van Eyck and the later French academic painters David,  Gérôme and Ingres. But, I also like contemporary artists like John  Currin. One of my favorite painters right now is Neo Rauch. They all  influence me in many different ways. I like the way Bouguereau  exquisitely paints flesh while the characters of Leonoroa Carrington  seem mystical. 

Ryden is also a proficient writer and includes artist statements and review essays for each of his artistic series, which can be found at his website here.  Reading through the writings, one is immediately drawn to the open frankness Ryden has when discussing his method, as described in his statement for “Wondertoonel” 2004, (which roughly translates as “wondrous theatre”) which gives the viewer an insight into the mind of the artist whilst also providing a guide to navigate his breathtakingly surreal artworks by:

Mark Ryden 14
Clearly infused with classical references, Ryden’s work is not only inspired by recent history, but also the works of past masters. He counts among his influences Bosch, Bruegel and Ingres with generous nods to Bouguereau and Italian and Spanish religious painting.

“It is only in childhood that contemporary society truly allows for imagination. Children can see a world ensouled, where bunnies weep and bees have secrets, where “inanimate” objects are alive. Many people think that childhood’s world of imagination is silly, unworthy of serious consideration, something to be outgrown. Modern thinking demands that an imaginative connection to nature needs to be overcome by “mature” ways of thinking about the world. Human beings used to connect to life through mystery and mythology. Now this kind of thinking is regarded as primitive or naive. Without it, we cut ourselves off from the life force, the world soul, and we are empty and starving.”

Mark Ryden 16
Artworks from Ryden’s 1998 “The Meat Show” series contemplate meat and the idea that we, stripped of our humanity, are ourselves meaty creations.
What would you say is your favorite piece of your own work and what does it mean to you?

M.R.: I like different pieces for different reasons. One piece that pops into mind is Medium Yams because of its modest scale and simplicity. In general I gravitate towards creating massive, detailed, and epic works.  While Medium Yams was a very small  and simple piece it held great power. It was a favorite of many at the exhibition where it was displayed. 

Mark Ryden came to preeminence in the 1990’s during a time when many artists, critics and collectors were quietly championing a return to the art of painting. With his masterful technique and disquieting content, Ryden quickly became one of the leaders of this movement on the West Coast.

Mark Ryden 15
Mark Ryden came to preeminence in the 1990’s during a time when many artists, critics and collectors were quietly championing a return to the art of painting.

Upon first glance Ryden’s work seems to mirror the Surrealists’ fascination with the subconscious and collective memories. However, Ryden transcends the initial Surrealists’ strategies by consciously choosing subject matter loaded with cultural connotation. His dewy vixens, cuddly plush pets, alchemical symbols, religious emblems, primordial landscapes and slabs of meat challenge his audience not necessarily with their own oddity but with the introduction of their soothing cultural familiarity into unsettling circumstances.

Viewers are initially drawn in by the comforting beauty of Ryden’s pop-culture references, then challenged by their circumstances, and finally transported to the artist’s final intent – a world where creatures speak from a place of childlike honesty about the state of mankind and our relationships with ourselves, each other and our past.

Mark Ryden 17
There is an obvious horror connected with the meat industry. The blood, the gore, the inhumane butchery. So many of us indirectly participate in this with our ravenous consumption of meat.
There is an obvious horror connected with the meat  industry. The blood, the gore, the inhumane butchery. So many of us  indirectly participate in this with our ravenous consumption of meat.  Sue Coe has explored that arena exquisitely in her work and writings. In  my own art I am not personally making a statement or judgement about  the meat consumption in our culture. I feel more like I am just  observing it. Just like T-rex, I myself am a passionate meat-eater. I  feel that the consumption of animal flesh is a natural primal instinct  just like sex and making paintings. But there is that paradox of knowing  how that scrumptious porterhouse made it to my dinner plate. We have  lost any kind of reverence for this. It would be interesting if people  would have to kill an animal themselves before they earned the right to  eat it.

 Beyond the conceptual impact, meat simply has a very strong visual  quality. The wonderful variety of textures and patterns in the marbling  of the meat is sumptuous. Subtle pinks gently swirl around with rich  vermillions and fatty yellow ochres. These visual qualities alone are  seductive enough to make meat the subject of a work of art. Meat is  glorious to paint. It is so easy to transcend the representational to  the abstract. Meat has been a subject for painters from Rembrandt to Van  Gogh. 

- In a quote from Juxtapoz magazine back in the day, Ryden explains his reason for incorporation meat into his work. 

Clearly infused with classical references, Ryden’s work is not only inspired by recent history, but also the works of past masters. He counts among his influences Bosch, Bruegel and Ingres with generous nods to Bouguereau and Italian and Spanish religious painting.

Mark Ryden 18
“There may be a little part of Alice in Wonderland that fits in. Charles Darwin, and Colonel Sanders provide pieces. To me the world is full of awe and wonder. This is what I put in my paintings.”

Over the past decade, this marriage of accessibility, craftsmanship and technique with social relevance, emotional resonance and cultural reference has catapulted Ryden beyond his roots and to the attention of museums, critics and serious collectors. Ryden’s work has been exhibited in museums and galleries worldwide, including a recent museum retrospective “Wondertoonel” at the Frye Museum of Art in Seattle and Pasadena Museum of California Art.

Mark Ryden was born in Medford Oregon. He received a BFA in 1987 from Art Center College of Design in Pasadena. He currently lives and works in Los Angeles where he paints slowly and happily amidst his countless collections of trinkets, statues, skeletons, books, paintings and antique toys.

Mark Ryden 19
There’s something very unsettling, disturbing, about his paintings, which hides behind the sometimes very sweet surface.

To see more of Mark Ryden’s stunning artwork, please visit his website, or his Facebook page.

Movies that Inspired Me

Here are some movies that I consider noteworthy and worth a view. Enjoy.

The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad.
Jason and the Argonauts
The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973)
The Abominable Dr. Phibes (1971)

Stories that Inspired Me

Here are reprints in full text of stories that inspired me, but that are nearly impossible to find in China. I place them here as sort of a personal library that I can use for inspiration. The reader is welcome to come and enjoy a read or two as well.

Link
R is for Rocket
Space Cadet (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Link
Link
Link
Correspondence Course
Link
Link
Link
Link
Link
The Last Night
The Flying Machine
A story of escape.
All Summer in a day.
The Smile by Ray Bradbury
The menace from Earth
Delilah and the Space Rigger
Any Friend of Nicholas Nickleby’s Is a Friend of Mine
Life-Line
The Tax-payer
The Pedestrian
Time for the stars.
Glory Road by Robert Heinlein
Starman Jones (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein.
The Lottery (Full Text) by Shirley Jackson
The Cold Equations (Full Text)
Farnham's Freehold (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Invisible Boy (Full Text) by Ray Bradbury
Job: A Comedy of Justice (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Spell my name with an "S" by Isaac Asimov
The Proud Robot (Full Text)
The Time Locker
Not the First (Full Text) by A.E. van Vogt
The Star Mouse (Full Text)
Space Jockey (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
He who shrank (Full Text).
Blowups Happen by Robert Heinlein
Uncle Eniar by Ray Bradbury
The Cask of Amontillado

My Poetry

My Kitten Knows

Art that Moves Me

An experiment of a bird in a vacuum jar.
Robert Williams
Todd Schorr
Mitch O'Connell
Greg (Craola) Simkins.

Articles & Links

You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.

  • You can start reading the articles by going HERE.
  • You can visit the Index Page HERE to explore by article subject.
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  • You can find out more about the author HERE.
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Introduction to the art of Mitch O’Connell.

“The Prince of Pop Art”, Mitch O’Connell is a beloved, cherished and respected leader of the “Lowbrow” art movement and one of the greatest illustrators of all time! Inspired by Pin-ups, hot-rods, comics, sideshows and all things kitsch, cuddly and curvaceous, he takes the vintage and makes it contemporary with his distinctive, eye-popping Pop Art imagery.

“I'm tempted to tear out the pages and hang them on the wall!" 

-USA Today 
Mitch O’Connell 10
Magazine work includes Newsweek, Time, Rolling Stone, New Yorker, Entertainment Weekly, GQ and Playboy!

He’s happy to play nice and follow instructions with illustration assignments for nearly every publication on Earth.

"We're smitten with everything Mitch has ever done. There's no escaping that his art is awesome!" 

-Bizarre magazine 

Magazine work includes Newsweek, Time, Rolling Stone, New Yorker, Entertainment Weekly, GQ and Playboy! Overnight deadlines met for newspapers include The New York Times, Village Voice, Chicago Tribune and dozens more!

Mitch O’Connell 2
He’s been featured in the world of rock ’n’ roll on album covers and posters for groups from The Ramones to Weezer to No Doubt to Moby!

He’s been featured in the world of rock ’n’ roll on album covers and posters for groups from The Ramones to Weezer to No Doubt to Moby! Mitch’s doodles are utilized in advertising campaigns for major companies from McDonalds to KFC, 7-11 to Coca-Cola! And when he’s not working with an art director, his fine art paintings have been exhibited in sold-out gallery shows from New York to Berlin, Tokyo to Miami and Hollywood to Mexico City.

"An eye-popping curation of the pop artist's finest illustrations!" 

-Yahoo! Music 

His sexy tattoo flash is a fixture on the walls of tattoo shops around the word (and on the bodies of thousands of tattoo lovers) with many of the designs collected in two bestselling books “ Mitch O’Connell Tattoos Volume 1” and “Mitch O’Connell Tattoos Volume 2“!  

Mitch O’Connell 4
His sexy tattoo flash is a fixture on the walls of tattoo shops around the word (and on the bodies of thousands of tattoo lovers) with many of the designs collected in two bestselling books.

His newest book, “Mitch O’Connell, the World’s Best Artist by Mitch O’Connell” is a huge career-spanning retrospective look at his art from the age of 3 to now!

This book is…

The book is…

AWESOME!

Just how many book reviews get a 100% love ith five stars! Not many. This should tell you all something.
Just how many book reviews get a 100% love with five stars! Not many. This should tell you all something.
"A pop surrealist and low-brow luminary ...an over-the-top, kitschy, vibrant mood-elevating coffee table book!" 

-Huffington Post 

The following are some reviews for those of you who are a tad unsure of this artists greatness…

Mitch O’Connell 5
And then there’s the AWESOME, AMAZING ARTWORK on the inside. From tattooed vixens to big-eyed bunny rabbits, there’s something here for the whole family…if you have a family where the kiddies are allowed to look at pictures of nekkid women. There is a mind-altering feast for the eyes in store for you.
Earlier  today, if you heard a sort of weird, high-pitched shrieking noise, not  unlike the mating cry of some long extinct bird, wafting high above the  trees, far off in distance...it was just ME receiving a package from my  UPS Heart Throb that contained THIS BOOK, quite possibly THE BEST BOOK  EVER!

First of all - it has a vinyl cover. A VINYL COVER!!!  Perfect for tubby-time viewing, or perhaps for enjoying in the  inflatable wading pool on those hot summer days.

And then there's  the AWESOME, AMAZING ARTWORK on the inside. From tattooed vixens to  big-eyed bunny rabbits, there's something here for the whole family...if  you have a family where the kiddies are allowed to look at pictures of  nekkid women. There is a mind-altering feast for the eyes in store for  you.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to squeezing  that vinyl cover. (This is apparently a new fetish I didn't know I had,  and to tell you the truth, it's got me a little worried.)

-  I'm Still Squealing!
A review of his book on Amazon.com

If  you liked the art on the cover, well, there is more of it inside. The  book itself is reminiscent of retro children's books with a foam / vinyl  embossed type cover. It even has glitter. Its something you can't  appreciate on the internet. The size is thick with tons of vibrant  reproductions of his artwork. 

There is lots of detail like the pages  have a contoured edge. The book construction itself is amazing. The  reason I bought this on amazon was because my bookstore's copy was  damaged. Seeing it in real life made me want this book, so I had to get  it. 

Its just fun to pick up and flip through. 

Chances are you are an  artist and will find some inspiration in here even if it is a little bit  crazy/freaky. I wouldn't give this book to a child, the audience is  more adult. I can't say this is lacking anything as it is just an art  book with good examples. The time that went into this book puts it over  the top. 

Worth 5 stars. I can see why 66 people thought it was awesome. I  don't know who would rate this a 4 or less unless they had a problem  with amazon. Sweet! 
Mitch O’Connell 6
The book itself is reminiscent of retro children’s books with a foam / vinyl embossed type cover. It even has glitter. Its something you can’t appreciate on the internet. The size is thick with tons of vibrant reproductions of his artwork.
Indirectly,  I've been a fan of Mitch's art since roughly, 1987. I worked as a  designer at a newspaper and we had subscriptions to two clip art  services (big, hulking glossy printed pages of several images, covering  nearly anything that can be advertised). 

One was Metro and the other was  Dynamic Graphics. Dynamic Graphics was my "go-to" service as, each  month, I scoured it's pages for that flashy, interesting, fun art with  the peculiar "MoC" signature. 

Since then, I learned the MoC was a cool  artist named Mitch O'Connell and I saw his work here and there in Heavy  Metal and some comics. I've moved on from the newspaper business but,  thanks in part to the Internet and various art books, I've been able to  follow Mitch's enthusiastic, dynamic work the last several years. 

I've  always admired his bold, daring renderings. As an illustrator myself, I  find inspiration in his lines and color palette. Today, I'm proud to say  I now own this comprehensive book. Tons of color, tons of  illustrations, tons of inspiration. 

Even the design of the book itself  is daring and bold. I've perused it several times since receiving it in  the mail and I plan on perusing it several more times, seeing something  new and interesting each time I open the book. 

Mr. O'Connell's art  speaks for itself but I'll say that It's unique a completely different  style than what anyone may be used to. I especially like the 70s-style.  He not only acknowledges it, he embraces it and you have to admire that.  I highly recommend! 

- Lived up to my expectations
The  puffy plastic cover over Mitch O'Connell The World's Greatest Artist  gives a damn good indication of what's inside: A massive, whopping,  ridiculously definitive collection of Mitch... and all Mitch.

From  the cutesy-sweet to the clip art to the truly naughty, here is  EVERYthing.  Superb book design makes the collection seem to fly, float  and take on a life of its own.

There was a long, long wait for this terrific tome; it was truly worth the wait. WOW! 

- Holy moley! All this and World War, too. 
Mitch O’Connell 3
The puffy plastic cover over Mitch O’Connell The World’s Greatest Artist gives a damn good indication of what’s inside: A massive, whopping, ridiculously definitive collection of Mitch… and all Mitch. From the cutesy-sweet to the clip art to the truly naughty, here is EVERYthing. Superb book design makes the collection seem to fly, float and take on a life of its own.
This  book is so amazing you'll want to sleep with it tucked under your head.  And thanks to the soft puffy cover you can! 

Try it, i did. Hoping some  of O'Connell's brilliance would seep into my brain. 

Fat chance! If you  have been a long time devote of O'Connell or have no idea who he is  (been living under a rock?) You NEED this book! 

By merely placing this  book on your coffee table you will immediately notice that you have  become more attractive to the world. 

You'll start getting more dates  than you can fit in your calendar. And you don't want to be left behind  when it hits the New York Times best seller list, do you? I didn't think  so. Get in on Mitch-Mania now! 

- My Bible has arrived! 
I  cant put this book down!! It had me hooked just with the glitter cover.  Wow!! I've loved this mans work for years. I can sit and look at his  art and tattoo flash for hours. This is a great addition to my  collection of his books and art work. Filled with beautiful women and  kitsch galore. This book is VERY large and informative. We learn more  about the man, myth and legend!!!  It's also a great price for so much  magnificent eye candy. I highly recommend it to any lover of Pop,  Surrealism, Kitsch or just Damn good art! :) 

- 5.0 out of 5 stars  This book is Fan-Stinken-Tastic!!
Mitch O’Connell 6
I cant put this book down!! It had me hooked just with the glitter cover. Wow!! I’ve loved this mans work for years. I can sit and look at his art and tattoo flash for hours. This is a great addition to my collection of his books and art work. Filled with beautiful women and kitsch galore.
It  has a sparkly cover and It's Mitch! So, It's good. I usually only read  on the Crapper but I already crapped today. I may just break my own rule  and read this while sitting on the couch! 

- The most important book you will ever buy 
EXCITEMENT! FUN! NUDITY! THRILLS!
BALLOONS! NUDITY! ALCOHOL! CAKE!
HILARITY! NUDITY!

When  a book has that as it's opening intro you know you have stumbled across  the new bible.  Mitch may be the world's best artist (his words,  mentioned many many times in this book) he is also probably the world's  funniest artist.

This book is comical to the extreme, louds of  laughing out loud guffaws and so much drink sprayed across the room,  luckily I chose to read this in lots of different locations so  everywhere got a nice even coating of beer.

This book is a huge  collection of his artwork, from drawings as a kid to early adverts he  was commissioned to draw to posters, tattoos and toilet seats, it is all  here.  The history of his rise to greatness and even a tour of his  mansion (puts the Taj Mahal to shame) can be found in this book.  Also  its the only book I've come across that has a gift shop at the end.

Hopefully there will be more books from Mitch to entertain us all.  I'm now off to locate him to get myself one of his tattoos. 

- World's best book 
The  second worst thing about moving to Wisconsin (first being living under  incipient fascism)is not having access to Mitch O'Connell. A lot of the  art in this book only appeared in posters , leaflets and other material  distributed in and around Chicago (Mitch 's art has appeared on  everything from pencils and skateboards to delightful women's bare  butts- I personally am waiting for the whoopee cushion).  

Years ago I  could pick the stuff up tear it off walls and enjoy it! My 20 year  deprivation has been cured with this book collecting Mitch's unique  (well sometimes a bit bizarre) interpretations of reality. 

The world  goes into Mitch's brain gets mashed around and comes out well  wonderfully different- and you can see it all here in this book without  skulking around sleazy burlesque houses, grunge band concerts and other  affairs- though all of the latter do enhance the experience! Only thing  that would make it better would be if it came with an inflatable Little  Puddles doll. 

- Modest Title Masks True Genius! 
Mitch O’Connell 7
This book is a huge collection of his artwork, from drawings as a kid to early adverts he was commissioned to draw to posters, tattoos and toilet seats, it is all here. The history of his rise to greatness and even a tour of his mansion (puts the Taj Mahal to shame) can be found in this book. Also its the only book I’ve come across that has a gift shop at the end.
This  is the only art book I own that actually entertained me.  Face it -  most art books you pay for nothing- a lot of white space around a a  reproduction of a piece you can't afford. That means you are paying most  of the cover price on blank or what design shysters call negative  space. O'Connell doesn't waste anything- including your time. 

Rather  than hiring some fancy college boy shill to write essays, O'Connell does  the writing his'sef which is why I am am actually going to read every  word- eventually. Right now I'm just happy to skim and look at all the  purty five star pictures.

By the way, not only are there sparkles in  the puffy plasticine cover- its spot glitter- which means it was  probably really expensive other than just expensive. 

- Gave Me A Stiffy 
Having  known the artist for about 35 years, I've had the great pleasure of  watching him progress from talented teen to peerless paragon of pop art.  Now, with the publication of this classy compendium, anyone who is even  remotely interested in popular art can share in this pleasure. With  exceedingly-deft hand, keen eye, and acerbic wit, Mitch O’Connell has  come to occupy a place in pop surrealism that is shared with only a few  artists --Robert Williams, self-described progenitor of the ‘Lowbrow’  movement, springs to mind.

While many of the pop surrealists or other  Lowbrow artists share the same interest in skewering the social,  cultural, political, and sexual mores of our consumerist culture, no one  --for my money, anyway-- does a better, funnier job of sending up the  obsessions of the modern world. While his technical skill is beyond  reproach, and repeated study of his work will prove this, it’s Mitch’s  sense of humor that will find readers coming back to this volume for  amusement long after the average coffee table book has been shelved and  forgotten.

In a wonderful addition to the content, the  exceedingly-high production values of the book --with a brilliant,  sparkled and textured cover; heavy, glossy-stock pages; and stunning  page layouts-- will make even those who are not familiar with Mitch’s  work sit up and take notice. Presuming there are yearly awards given for  outstanding book design, I’ll be not at all surprised to find this book  topping the list of nominees.

So, summing up: If you’re a fan of  Mitch O’Connell, buy the book. If you’re interested in modern art, buy  the book. If you’re fond of well-designed and executed art books, buy  the book. If you merely want to take a chance on a bold and brilliant  artist, this is the one to pick up...you won’t be disappointed!! 

- A peerless artist, a peerless book 
Mitch O’Connell 8
While many of the pop surrealists or other Lowbrow artists share the same interest in skewering the social, cultural, political, and sexual mores of our consumerist culture, no one –for my money, anyway– does a better, funnier job of sending up the obsessions of the modern world. While his technical skill is beyond reproach, and repeated study of his work will prove this.
I  purchased this book expecting just another glowing biography of yet  another pampered, spoiled, filthy rich, low-brow artist. All I can say  is "I was blind...and now I see!" After reading this man's, no, this  immortals, life story and gazing at his life's work, I declare myself  his humble servant.  

The colors, line work and, most importantly, the  brilliance BEHIND the work, have given my life a purpose. I worship at  the filthy, somewhat ripe feet of my Lord and Savior: Mitch O'Connell.  Mitch, I hope you are reading this. I have scanned the photos from your  book and created wallpaper (no, not digital wallpaper, but actual paper  wallpaper) and covered the walls of my cabin with thousands of images  from your book, and more importantly, you. I now live in my car and only  enter my shrine to you, formally my home, to worship at an alter that I  created that features an 8' paper mache head of you (it came out really  cool- except the left side looks a little droopy and concave. One of my  cats climbed onto it before it was fully dried.). 

If you have any  personal items that you could send me for my alter I would appreciate  it. I would collect your hair, but....! Could you send me some of your  old clothes or maybe some toe nail clippings? I would expect them to be  brightly colored and dipped in glitter, just like your art. I am working  on a life size action figure of you that I can clothe in Holy vestments  so you can perform ceremonies and we can have imaginary conversations-  together! Everyone out there, please, throw away your Bibles and holy  books and pick up Mitch O'Connell The World's Best Artist and let's  commence to worshipping at the Holy Church of Mitch! Amen! 

- This Book Spoke To Me- no kidding it actually talked 
The perfect book to introduce the unsuspecting Cool Kid to the work of Mitch O'Connell!

If  you like hot rods, 1950's comics, kitsch culture, tattoos, big-breasted  women who aren't afraid to spank you when necessary, pink poodle dogs,  aliens, motorcycles and the sarcastic, self-aware humor of one of  America's favorite retro-culture artist, then this is the book for you!

And  it comes wrapped up in a plushy, plastic foam cover that cleans up easy  if splattered with blood, baby vomit or spunk. Or a disgusting  combination of all three!

This book will make you laugh!
This book will tentpole your trousers!
This  book will make you a cooler individual than your lesser friends! I am  cooler than you, because I own this book (and a few other Mitch  O'Connell books too.)

What are you waiting for? Get up on this book! 

- Throw money at your local bookseller for this book! 
Mitch O’Connell 9
If you like hot rods, 1950’s comics, kitsch culture, tattoos, big-breasted women who aren’t afraid to spank you when necessary, pink poodle dogs, aliens, motorcycles and the sarcastic, self-aware humor of one of America’s favorite retro-culture artist, then this is the book for you!
Mitch  O'Connell's latest book, "Mitch O'Connell the World's Best Artist by  Mitch O'Connell", is the BEST and GREATEST book ever penned by the  Master to this date!

Mitch, my friend for over 30 years has created  the world's MOST magical collection of SUPER ART.... yes, the term is  SUPER ART!

Owning his most current book has cured my arthritis. By  reading the pages my 60 year old eyes now possess 20/20 vision. I can  walk without a cane. My elderly wife read it and is now using tampons  again. THE BOOK IS A MIRACLE!!! This modest genius has created the cures  for all maladies of the Human Condition by merely printing the  World's Best Art; HIS World's Best Art and AMAZING LIFE STORY in this  Remarkable 288 page book!

Ladies & Gentlemen throw away your Bibles because THIS IS IT!!!!!!! The only Good Book you will ever need!

You will never EVER get a bigger bang for your $20. 

- GOD'S GIFT TO THE ART WORLD !! 
All  art books have pictures (that's kind of the idea) but how many would  you sit down and read?  Sure, "Mitch O'Connell, the World's Best Artist"  is chock-full of the requisite lifetime's worth of artwork (well, maybe  two-thirds to half a lifetime, he's not dead yet), but it's also  brimming with personal tales and anecdotes filled with witty,  self-deprecating braggadocio, all wrapped in a puffy, sparkly vinyl  cover.  

Not many other (any other?) artists can claim to have been  published in everything from the New York Times to Juggs and you'll  learn that and many other fascinating facts when you read this book.   

Did I mention the puffy, sparkly vinyl cover?  It's an art book which  moonlights as a coaster, which is super-practical (buy a set!).  So, if  you like 60's kitsch, creepy clowns, and big-eyed rabbits (and who  doesn't?) then this is the book for you. 

- The first coffee table book you'll actually read! 
Mitch O’Connell 1
All art books have pictures (that’s kind of the idea) but how many would you sit down and read? Sure, “Mitch O’Connell, the World’s Best Artist” is chock-full of the requisite lifetime’s worth of artwork (well, maybe two-thirds to half a lifetime, he’s not dead yet), but it’s also brimming with personal tales and anecdotes filled with witty, self-deprecating braggadocio, all wrapped in a puffy, sparkly vinyl cover.
I  first saw Mitch's work back in the dark ages - before computers and  t'internet and the writing of book online reviews. It was a "graphic  novel" (trans.: Fat Expensive Comic Book) called GINGER FOX, and I've  been following his work ever since, picking up the odd book or flyer or  cover whenever I came across them. 

Now, all of that scattered detritus  has been collated into one big fat squishy plastic-covered wipe-clean  book. Fatter and more expensive than Ginger Fox, who must be in her  fatter and more expensive mid-50s' by now. 

Mitch has an assured clean  graphic line, a searing sense of eye-popping colour, a healthy interest  in the female form, and a joyous sense of the pop-art poetry inherent in  the commercial ephemera those fancy-pants "high art" snobs just don't  get. I want to delve into the dark recesses of this man's "gentleman's  magazine" collection, but fear I may never emerge... Go buy!! NOW!! 

- Squishy!
I  never in a million years would have thought I'd own this book.  I'm a  fan  and I love art books but my own art has consumed all resources  and  left my book aquiring funds non existent.  Fast forward to my B-day  party this yr  and I get Mitch's book for a gift. So of course  we  immediatly crack it open to take in the mind bending eye candy..  First  words out of my mouth. "danmmit, he IS the Worlds Greatest Artist!"   

Endless hours of entertainment. Known about in France.  As advertised.  All in all pretty stinkin' cool. Color me jealous and inspired all at  the same time. So if you're like me, put it on your wish list, and if  you can buy it  just do it now. You'll be happy you treated yourself. 

- Worlds Greatest Artist, yea right. 

Finally, from Boing Boing...

In 2015 my friend, the fabulous artist Mitch O'Connell, created this  excellent illustration of Donald Trump as one of the evil aliens from  John Carpenter's 1988 science fiction film, They Live. Once Trump became president, Mitch tried to install a billboard with the illustration, but no one in the US would let him. He ended up displaying it in Mexico City, though.
 
 Well, Mitch recently found out that a Times Square billboard company  will allow him to display his illustration on a billboard and he's  started a gofundme campaign to make this dream a reality.  
the fabulous artist Mitch O'Connell, created this  excellent illustration of Donald Trump as one of the evil aliens from  John Carpenter's 1988 science fiction film, They Live. Once Trump became president, Mitch tried to install a billboard with the illustration, but no one in the US would let him.
The fabulous artist Mitch O’Connell, created this illustration of Donald Trump as one of the evil aliens from John Carpenter’s 1988 science fiction film, They Live. Once Trump became president, Mitch tried to install a billboard with the illustration, but no one in the US would let him.

Fictional Story Related Index

This is an index of full text reprints of stories that I have read that influenced me when I was young. They are rather difficult to come by today, as where I live they are nearly impossible to find. Yes, you can find them on the internet, behind paywalls. Ah, that’s why all those software engineers in California make all that money. Well, here they are FOR FREE. Enjoy reading them.

Movies that Inspired Me

Here are some movies that I consider noteworthy and worth a view. Enjoy.

The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad.
Jason and the Argonauts
The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973)
The Abominable Dr. Phibes (1971)

Stories that Inspired Me

Here are reprints in full text of stories that inspired me, but that are nearly impossible to find in China. I place them here as sort of a personal library that I can use for inspiration. The reader is welcome to come and enjoy a read or two as well.

Link
R is for Rocket
Space Cadet (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Link
Link
Link
Correspondence Course
Link
Link
Link
Link
Link
The Last Night
The Flying Machine
A story of escape.
All Summer in a day.
The Smile by Ray Bradbury
The menace from Earth
Delilah and the Space Rigger
Any Friend of Nicholas Nickleby’s Is a Friend of Mine
Life-Line
The Tax-payer
The Pedestrian
Time for the stars.
Glory Road by Robert Heinlein
Starman Jones (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein.
The Lottery (Full Text) by Shirley Jackson
The Cold Equations (Full Text)
Farnham's Freehold (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Invisible Boy (Full Text) by Ray Bradbury
Job: A Comedy of Justice (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Spell my name with an "S" by Isaac Asimov
The Proud Robot (Full Text)
The Time Locker
Not the First (Full Text) by A.E. van Vogt
The Star Mouse (Full Text)
Space Jockey (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
He who shrank (Full Text).
Blowups Happen by Robert Heinlein
Uncle Eniar by Ray Bradbury
The Cask of Amontillado

My Poetry

My Kitten Knows

Art that Moves Me

An experiment of a bird in a vacuum jar.
Robert Williams
Todd Schorr

Articles & Links

You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.

  • You can start reading the articles by going HERE.
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R is for Rocket (Full Text) by Ray Bradbury

This is the full text of the story "R is for Rocket" by Ray Bradbury. It is not only a classic, but it is also a story that held particular meaning to me. For it was how I felt about my dreams to become that mystical "Spacemen". For us, back then, those of us who were "bitten by the bug" of space travel were fixated and driven by the one singular goal... to leave the Earth and explore "Outer Space".

I hope that you, the reader, will find this lovely story as wondrous as I have. Please enjoy it, and again, many thanks to the great master Ray Bradbury for composing this masterpiece.

R is for Rocket

There was this fence where we pressed our faces and felt the wind turn warm and held to the fence and forgot who we were or where we came from but dreamed of who we might be and where we might go. . . .

    Yet we were boys and liked being boys and lived in a Florida town and liked the town and went to school and fairly liked the school and climbed trees and played football and liked our mothers and fathers. . . .

    But some time every hour of every day of every week for a minute or a second when we thought on fire and stars and the fence beyond which they waited . . . we liked the rockets more.

    The fence. The rockets.

    Every Saturday morning . . .

    The guys met at my house.

    With the sun hardly up, they yelled until the neighbors were moved to brandish paralysis guns out their ventilators I commanding the guys to shut up or they’d be frozen statues for the next hour and then where would they be?

    Aw, climb a rocket, stick your head in the main-jet! the kids always yelled back, but yelled this safe behind our garden I fence. Old Man Wickard, next door, is a great shot with the para-gun.

    This one dim cool Saturday morning I was lying in bed thinking about how I had flunked my semantics exam the day before at formula-school, when I heard the gang yelling below. It was hardly 7 a.m. and there was still a lot of fog roaming in off the Atlantic, and only now were the weather-control vibrators at each corner starting to hum and shoot out rays to get rid of the stuff; I heard them moaning soft and nice.

    I padded to the window and stuck my head out.

    “Okay, space-pirates! Motors off!”

    “Hey!” shouted Ralph Priory. “We just heard, there’s a new schedule today! The Moon Job, the one with the new XL3 motor, is cutting gravity in an hour!”

    “Buddha, Muhammad, Allah, and other real and semi-mythological figures,” I said, and went away from the window so fast the concussion laid all the boys out on my lawn.

    I zippered myself into a jumper, yanked on my boots, clipped my food-capsules to my hip-pocket, for I knew there’d be no food or even thought of food today, we’d just stuff with pills when our stomachs barked, and fell down the two-story vacuum elevator.

    On the lawn, all five of the guys were chewing their lips, bouncing around, scowling.

“Last one,” said I, passing them at 5000 mph, “to the monorail is a bug-eyed Martian!”

    On the monorail, with the cylinder hissing us along to Rocket Port, twenty miles from town — a few minutes ride  — I had bugs in my stomach. A guy fifteen doesn’t get to see the big stuff often enough, mostly every week it was the small continental cargo rockets coming and going on schedule. But this was big, among the biggest . . . the Moon and beyond. . . .

    “I’m sick,” said Priory, and hit me on the arm.

    I hit him back. “Me, too. Boy, ain’t Saturday the best day in the week!?”

    Priory and I traded wide, understanding grins. We got along all Condition Go. The other pirates were okay. Sid Rossen, Mac Leslyn, Earl Marnee, they knew how to jump around like all the kids, and they loved the rockets, too, but I had the feeling they wouldn’t be doing what Ralph and I would do some day. Ralph and I wanted the stars for each of us, more than we would want a fistful of clear-cut blue-white diamonds.

    We yelled with the yellers, we laughed with the laughers, but at the middle of it all, we were still, Ralph and I, and the cylinder whispered to a stop and we were outside yelling, laughing, running, but quiet and almost in slow motion, Ralph ahead of me, and all of us pointed one way, at the observation fence and grabbing hold, yelling for the slowpokes to catch up, but not looking back for them, and then we were all there together and the big rocket came out of its plastic work canopy like a great interstellar circus tent and moved along its gleaming track out toward the fire point, accompanied by the gigantic gantry like a gathering of prehistoric reptile birds which kept and preened and fed this one big fire monster and led it toward its seizure and birth into a suddenly blast-furnace sky.

    I quit breathing. I didn’t even suck another breath it seemed until the rocket was way out on the concrete meadow, followed by water-beetle tractors and great cylinders bearing hidden men, and all around, in asbestos suits, praying-mantis mechanics fiddled with machines and buzzed and cawwed and gibbered to each other on invisible, unhearable radiophones, but we could hear it all, in our heads, our minds, our hearts.

    “Lord,” I said at last.

    “The very good Lord,” said Ralph Priory at my elbow.

    The others said this, too, over and over.

It was something to “good Lord” about. It was a hundred years of dreaming all sorted out and chosen and put together Ito make the hardest, prettiest, swiftest dream of all. Every line was fire solidified and made perfect, it was flame frozen, and lice waiting to thaw there in the middle of a concrete prairie, ready to wake with a roar, jump high and knock its silly fine great head against the Milky Way and knock the stars down in a full return of firefall meteors. You felt it could kick the Coal Sack Nebula square in the midriff and make it stand out of the way.

    It got me in the midriff, too — it gripped me in such a way I knew the special sickness of longing and envy and grief for lack of accomplishment. And when the astronauts patrolled the field in the final silent mobile-van, my body went with them in their strange white armor, in their bubble-helmets and insouciant pride, looking as if they were team-parading to a magnetic football game at one of the local mag-fields, for mere practice. But they were going to the Moon, they went every month now, and the crowds that used to come to watch were no longer there, there was just us kids to worry them up and worry them off.

“Gosh,” I said. “What wouldn’t I give to go with them. What wouldn’t I give.”

    “Me,” said Mac, “I’d give my one-year monorail privileges.”

    “Yeah. Oh, very much yeah.”

    It was a big feeling for us kids caught half between this morning’s toys and this afternoon’s very real and powerful fireworks.

    And then the preliminaries got over with. The fuel was in the rocket and the men ran away from it on the ground like ants running lickety from a metal god — and the Dream woke up and gave a yell and jumped into the sky. And then it was gone, all the vacuum shouting of it, leaving nothing but a hot trembling in the air, through the ground, and up our legs to our hearts. Where it had been was a blazed, seared pock and a fog of rocket smoke like a cumulus cloud banked low.

    “It’s gone!” yelled Priory.

    And we all began to breathe fast again, frozen there on the ground as if stunned by the passing of a gigantic paralysis gun.

    “I want to grow up quick,” I said, then. “I want to grow up quick so I can take that rocket.”

I bit my lips. I was so darned young, and you cannot apply for space work. You have to be chosen. Chosen.

    Finally somebody, I guess it was Sidney, said:

    “Let’s go to the tele-show now.”

    Everyone said yeah, except Priory and myself. We said no, and the other kids went off laughing breathlessly, talking, and left Priory and me there to look at the spot where the ship had been.

    It spoiled everything else for us — that takeoff.

    Because of it, I flunked my semantics test on Monday.

    I didn’t care.

    At times like that I thanked Providence for concentrates. When your stomach is nothing but a coiled mass of excitement, you hardly feel like drawing a chair to a full hot dinner. A few concen-tabs swallowed, did wonderfully well as substitution, without the urge of appetite.

    I got to thinking about it, tough and hard, all day long and late at night. It got so bad I had to use sleep-massage mechs every night, coupled with some of Tschaikovsky’s quieter music to get my eyes shut.

 “Good Lord, young man,” said my teacher, that Monday at class. “If this keeps up I’ll have you reclassified at the next psych-board meeting.”

    “I’m sorry,” I replied.

    He looked hard at me. “What sort of block have you got? I It must be a very simple, and also a  conscious,  one.”

    I winced. “It’s conscious, sir; but it’s not simple. It’s multi-tentacular. In brief, though — it’s rockets.”

    He smiled. “R is for Rocket, eh?”

    “I guess that’s it, sir.”

    “We can’t let it interfere with your scholastic record, though, young man.”

    “Do you think I need hypnotic suggestion, sir?”

    “No, no.” He flipped through a small tab of records with my name blocked on it. I had a funny stone in my stomach, just lying there. He looked at me. “You know, Christopher, you’re king-of-the-hill here; head of the class.” He closed his eyes and mused over it. “We’ll have to see about a lot of other things,” he concluded. Then he patted me on the shoulder.

    “Well — get on with your work. Nothing to worry about.”

He walked away.

    I tried to get back to work, but I couldn’t. During the rest of the day the teacher kept watching me and looking at my tab-record and chewing his lip. About two in the afternoon he dialed a number on his desk-audio and discussed something with somebody for about five minutes.

    I couldn’t hear what was said.

    But when he set the audio into its cradle, he stared straight at me with the funniest light in his eyes.

    It was envy and admiration and pity all in one. It was a little sad and it was much of happiness. It had a lot in it, just in his eyes. The rest of his face said nothing.

    It made me feel like a saint and a devil sitting there.

    Ralph Priory and I slid home from formula-school together early that afternoon. I told Ralph what had happened and he frowned in the dark way he always frowns.

    I began to worry. And between the two of us we doubled and tripled the worry.

    “You don’t think you’ll be sent away, do you, Chris?”

Our monorail car hissed. We stopped at our station. We got out. We walked slow. “I don’t know,” I said.

    “That would be plain dirty,” said Ralph.

    “Maybe I need a good psychiatric laundering, Ralph. I can’t go on flubbing my studies this way.”

    We stopped outside my house and looked at the sky for a long moment. Ralph said something funny.

    “The stars aren’t out in the daytime, but we can see ’em, can’t we, Chris?”

    “Yeah,” I said. “Darn rights.”

    “Well stick it together, huh, Chris? Blast them, they can’t take you away now. We’re pals. It wouldn’t be fair.”

    I didn’t say anything because there was no room in my throat for anything but a hectagonal lump.

    “What’s the matter with your eyes?” asked Priory.

    “Aw, I looked at the sun too long. Come on inside, Ralph.”

    We yelled under the shower spray in the bath-cubicle, but our yells weren’t especially convincing, even when we turned on the ice-water.

While we were standing in the warm-air dryer, I did a lot of thinking. Literature, I figured, was full of people who fought battles against hard, razor-edged opponents. They pitted brain and muscle against obstacles until they won out or were themselves defeated. But here I was with hardly a sign of any outward conflict. It was all running around in spiked boots inside my head, making cuts and bruises where no one could see them except me and a psychologist. But it was just as bad.

    “Ralph,” I said, as we dressed, “I got a war on.”

    “All by yourself?” he asked.

    “I can’t include you,” I said. “Because this is personal. How many times has my mother said, ‘Don’t eat so much, Chris, your eyes are bigger than your stomach?'”

    “A million times.”

    “Two million. Well, paraphrase it, Ralph. Change it to ‘Don’t see so much, Chris, your mind is too big for your body.’ I got a war on between a mind that wants things my body can’t give it.”

    Priory nodded quietly. “I see what you mean about its being a personal war. In that case, Christopher, I’m at war, too.”

“I knew you were,” I said. “Somehow I think the other kids’ll grow out of it. But I don’t think we will, Ralph. I think we’ll keep waiting.”

    We sat down in the middle of the sunlit upper deck of the house, and started checking over some homework on our formula-pads. Priory couldn’t get his. Neither could I. Priory put into words the very thing I didn’t dare say out loud.

    “Chris, the Astronaut Board selects. You can’t apply for it. You wait.”

    “I know.”

    “You wait from the time you’re old enough to turn cold in the stomach when you see a Moon rocket, until all the years go by, and every month that passes you hope that one morning a blue Astronaut helicopter will come down out of the sky, land on your lawn, and that a neat-looking engineer will ease out, walk up the rampway briskly, and touch the bell.

    “You keep waiting for that helicopter until you’re twenty-one. And then, on the last day of your twentieth year you drink and laugh a lot and say what the heck, you didn’t really care about it, anyway.”

    We both just sat there, deep in the middle of his words. We both just sat there. Then:

  “I don’t want that disappointment, Chris. I’m fifteen, just like you. But if I reach my twenty-first year without an Astronaut ringing the bell where I live at the ortho-station, I — “

    “I know,” I said. “I know. I’ve talked to men who’ve waited, all for nothing. And if it happens that way to us, Ralph, well — we’ll get good and drunk together and then go out and take jobs loading cargo on a Europe-bound freighter.”

    Ralph stiffened and his face went pale. “Loading cargo.”

    There was a soft, quick step on the ramp and my mother was there. I smiled. “Hi, lady!”

    “Hello. Hello, Ralph.”

    “Hello, Jhene.”

    She didn’t look much older than twenty-five, in spite of having birthed and raised me and worked at the Government Statistics House. She was light and graceful and smiled a lot, and I could see how father must have loved her very much when he was alive. One parent is better than none. Poor Priory, now, raised in one of those orthopedical stations. . . .

    Jhene walked over and put her hand on Ralph’s face. “You look ill,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

Ralph managed a fairly good smile. “Nothing — at all.”

    Jhene didn’t need prompting. She said, “You can stay here I tonight, Priory. We want you. Don’t we, Chris?”

    “Heck, yes.”

    “I should get back to the station,” said Ralph, rather feebly, I observed. “But since you asked and Chris here needs help on his semantics for tomorrow, I’ll stick and help him.”

    “Very generous,” I observed.

    “First, though, I’ve a few errands. I’ll take the ‘rail and be back in an hour, people.”

    When Ralph was gone my mother looked at me intently, then brushed my hair back with a nice little move of her fingers.

    “Something’s happening, Chris.”

    My heart stopped talking because it didn’t want to talk any more for a while. It waited.

    I opened my mouth, but Jhene went on:

    “Something’s up somewhere. I had two calls at work today. One from your teacher. One from — I can’t say. I don’t want to say until things happen — “

    My heart started talking again, slow and warm.

    “Don’t tell me, then, Jhene. Those calls — “

She just looked at me. She took my hand between her two soft warm ones. “You’re so young, Chris. You’re so awfully young.”

    I didn’t speak.

    Her eyes brightened. “You never knew your father. I wish you had. You know what he was, Chris?”

    I said, “Yeah. He worked in a Chemistry Lab, deep underground most of the time.”

    And, my mother added, strangely, “He worked deep under the ground, Chris, and never saw the stars.”

    My heart yelled in my chest. Yelled loud and hard.

    “Oh, Mother. Mother — “

    It was the first time in years I had called her mother.

    When I woke the next morning there was a lot of sunlight in the room, but the cushion where Priory slept when he stayed over, was vacant. I listened. I didn’t hear him splashing in the shower-cube, and the dryer wasn’t humming. He was gone.

    I found his note pinned on the sliding door.


“See you at formula at noon. Your mother wanted me to do some work for her. She got a call this morning, and said she needed me to help. So long. Priory.”

    Priory out running errands for Jhene. Strange. A call in the early morning to Jhene. I went back and sat down on the cushion.

    While I was sitting there a bunch of the kids yelled down on the lawn-court. “Hey, Chris! You’re late!”

    I stuck my head out the window.  “Be right down!”

    “No, Chris.”

    My mother’s voice. It was quiet and it had something funny in it. I turned around. She was standing in the doorway behind me, her face pale, drawn, full of some small pain. “No, Chris,” she said again, softly. “Tell them to go on to formula without you — today.”

    The kids were still making noise downstairs, I guess, but I didn’t hear them. I just felt myself and my mother, slim and pale and restrained in my room. Far off, the weather-control vibrators started to hum and throb.

    I turned slowly and looked down at the kids. The three of them were looking up, lips parted casually, half-smiling, semantic-tabs in their knotty fingers. “Hey — ” one of them said. Sidney, it was.

    “Sorry, Sid. Sorry, gang. Go on without me. I can’t go to formula today. See you later, huh?”

    “Aw, Chris!”

    “Sick?”

    “No. Just — Just go on without me, gang. I’ll see you.”

    I felt numb. I turned away from their upturned, questioning faces and glanced at the door. Mother wasn’t there. She had gone downstairs, quietly. I heard the kids moving off, not quite as boisterously, toward the monorail station.

    Instead of using the vac-elevator, I walked slowly downstairs. “Jhene,” I said, “where’s Ralph?”

    Jhene pretended to be interested in combing her long light hair with a vibro-toothed comb. “I sent him off. I didn’t want him here this morning.”

    “Why am I staying home from formula, Jhene?”

    “Chris, please don’t ask.”

    Before I could say anything else, there was a sound in the air. It cut through the very soundproofed wall of the house, and hummed in my marrow, quick and high as an arrow of glittering music.

    I swallowed. All the fear and uncertainty and doubt went away, instantly.

    When I heard that note, I thought of Ralph Priory. Oh Ralph, if you could be here now. I couldn’t believe the truth of it. Hearing that note and hearing it with my whole body and soul as well as with my ears.

    It came closer, that sound. I was afraid it would go away. But it didn’t go away. It lowered its pitch and came down outside the house in great whirling petals of light and shadow and I knew it was a helicopter the color of the sky. It stopped humming, and in the silence my mother tensed forward, dropped the vibro-comb and took in her breath.

    In that silence, too, I heard booted footsteps walking up the ramp below. Footsteps that I had waited for a long time.

    Footsteps I was afraid would never come.

    Somebody touched the bell.

    And I knew who it was.

    And all I could think was, Ralph, why in heck did you have to go away now, when all this is happening? Blast it, Ralph, why did you?

The man looked as if he had been born in his uniform. It fitted like a second layer of salt-colored skin, touched here and there with a line, a dot of blue. As simple and perfect a uniform as could be made, but with all the muscled power of the universe behind it.

    His name was Trent. He spoke firmly, with a natural round perfection, directly to the subject.

    I stood there, and my mother was on the far side of the room, looking like a bewildered little girl. I stood listening.

    Out of all the talking I remember some of the snatches:

    “. . . highest grades, high IQ. Perception A-1, curiosity Triple-A. Enthusiasm necessary to the long, eight-year educational grind. . . .”

    “Yes, sir.”

    “. . . talks with your semantics and psychology teachers — “

    “Yes, sir.”

    “. . . and don’t forget, Mr. Christopher . . .”

     Mister Christopher!

    “. . . and don’t forget, Mr. Christopher, nobody is to know you have been selected by the Astronaut Board.”

    “No one?”

“Your mother and teacher know, naturally. But no other person must know. Is that perfectly understood?”

    “Yes, sir.”

    Trent smiled quietly, standing there with his big hands at his sides. “You want to ask why, don’t you? Why you can’t tell your friends? I’ll explain.

    “It’s a form of psychological protection. We select about ten thousand young men each year from the earth’s billions. Out of that number three thousand wind up, eight years later, as spacemen of one sort or another. The others must return to society. They’ve flunked out, but there’s no reason for everyone to know. They usually flunk out, if they’re going to flunk, in the first six months. And it’s tough to go back and face your friends and say you couldn’t make the grade at the biggest job in the world. So we make it easy to go back.

    “But there’s still another reason. It’s psychological, too. Half the fun of being a kid is being able to lord it over the other guys, by being superior in some way. We take half the fun out of Astronaut selection by strictly forbidding you to tell your pals. Then, we’ll know if you wanted to go into space for frivolous reasons, or for space itself. If you’re in it for personal conceit — you’re damned.

If you’re in it because you can’t help being in it and have to be in it — you’re blessed.”

    He nodded to my mother. “Thank you, Mrs. Christopher.”

    “Sir,” I said. “A question. I have a friend. Ralph Priory. He lives at an ortho-station — “

    Trent nodded. “I can’t tell you his rating, of course, but he’s on our list. He’s your buddy? You want him along, of course. I’ll check his record. Station-bred, you say? That’s not good. But — we’ll see.”

    “If you would, please, thanks.”

    “Report to me at the Rocket Station Saturday afternoon at five, Mr. Christopher. Meantime: silence.”

    He saluted. He walked off. He went away in the helicopter into the sky, and Mother was beside me quickly, saying, “Oh, Chris, Chris,” over and over, and we held to each other and whispered and talked and she said many things, how good this was going to be for us, but especially for me, how fine, what an honor it was, like the old old days when men fasted and took vows and joined churches and stopped up their tongues and were silent and prayed to be worthy and to live well as monks and priests of many churches in far places, and came forth and moved in the world and lived as examples and taught well. It was no different now, this was a greater priesthood, in a way, she said, she inferred, she knew, and I was to be some small part of it, I would not be hers any more, I would belong to all the worlds, I would be all the things my father wanted to be and never lived or had a chance to be. . . .

    “Darn rights, darn rights,” I murmured. “I will, I promise I will . . .”

    I caught my voice. “Jhene — how — how will we tell Ralph? What about him?”

    “You’re going away, that’s all, Chris. Tell him that. Very simply. Tell him no more. He’ll understand.”

    “But, Jhene, you —”

    She smiled softly. “Yes, I’ll be lonely, Chris. But I’ll have my work and I’ll have Ralph.”

    “You mean . . .”

    “I’m taking him from the ortho-station. He’ll live here, when you’re gone. That’s what you wanted me to say, isn’t it, Chris?”

    I nodded, all paralyzed and strange inside.

    “That’s exactly what I wanted you to say.”

  “He’ll be a good son, Chris. Almost as good as you.”

    “He’ll be fine!”

    We told Ralph Priory. How I was going away maybe to school in Europe for a year and how Mother wanted him to come live as her son, now, until such time as I came back. We said it quick and fast, as if it burned our tongues. And when we finished, Ralph came and shook my hand and kissed my mother on the cheek and he said:

    “I’ll be proud. I’ll be very proud.”

    It was funny, but Ralph didn’t even ask any more about why I was going, or where, or how long I would be away. All he would say was, “We had a lot of fun, didn’t we?” and let it go at that, as if he didn’t dare say any more.

    It was Friday night, after a concert at the amphitheater in the center of our public circle, and Priory and Jhene and I came home, laughing, ready to go to bed.

    I hadn’t packed anything. Priory noted this briefly, and let it go. All of my personal supplies for the next eight years would be supplied by someone else. No need for packing.

My semantics teacher called on the audio, smiling and saying a very brief, pleasant good-bye.

    Then, we went to bed, and I kept thinking in the hour before I lolled off, about how this was the last night with Jhene and Ralph. The very last night.

    Only a kid of fifteen — me.

    And then, in the darkness, just before I went to sleep, Priory twisted softly on his cushion, turned his solemn face to me, and whispered, “Chris?” A pause. “Chris. You still awake?” It was like a faint echo.

    “Yes,” I said.

    “Thinking?”

    A pause.

    “Yes.”

    He said, “You’re — You’re not waiting any more, are you, Chris?”

    I knew what he meant. I couldn’t answer.

    I said, “I’m awfully tired, Ralph.”

    He twisted back and settled down and said, “That’s what I thought. You’re not waiting any more. Gosh, but that’s good, Chris. That’s good.”

    He reached out and punched me in the arm-muscle, lightly.

    Then we both went to sleep.

  It was Saturday morning. The kids were yelling outside. Their voices filled the seven o’clock fog. I heard Old Man Wickard’s ventilator flip open and the zip of his para-gun, playfully touching around the kids.

    “Shut up!” I heard him cry, but he didn’t sound grouchy. It was a regular Saturday game with him. And I heard the kids giggle.

    Priory woke up and said, “Shall I tell them, Chris, you’re not going with them today?”

    “Tell them nothing of the sort.” Jhene moved from the door. She bent out the window, her hair all light against a ribbon of fog. “Hi, gang! Ralph and Chris will be right down. Hold gravity!”

    “Jhene!” I cried.

    She came over to both of us. “You’re going to spend your Saturday the way you always spend it — with the gang!”

    “I planned on sticking with you, Jhene.”

    “What sort of holiday would that be, now?”

    She ran us through our breakfast, kissed us on the cheeks, and forced us out the door into the gang’s arms.

    “Let’s not go out to the Rocket Port today, guys.”

  “Aw, Chris — why not?”

    Their faces did a lot of changes. This was the first time in history I hadn’t wanted to go. “You’re kidding, Chris.”

    “Sure he is.”

    “No, he’s not. He means it,” said Priory. “And I don’t want to go either. We go every Saturday. It gets tiresome. We can go next week instead.”

    “Aw . . .”

    They didn’t like it, but they didn’t go off by themselves. It was no fun, they said, without us.

    “What the heck— we’ll go next week.”

    “Sure we will. What do you want to do, Chris?”

    I told them.

    We spent the morning playing Kick the Can and some games we’d given up a long time ago, and we hiked out along some old rusty and abandoned railroad tracks and walked in a small woods outside town and photographed some birds and went swimming raw, and all the time I kept thinking — this is the last day.

    We did everything we had ever done before on Saturday. All the silly crazy things, and nobody knew I was going away except Ralph, and five o’clock kept getting nearer and nearer.

    At four, I said good-bye to the kids.

“Leaving so soon, Chris? What about tonight?”

    “Call for me at eight,” I said. “We’ll go see the new Sally Gibberts picturel”

    “Swell.”

    “Cut gravity!”

    And Ralph and I went home.

    Mother wasn’t there, but she had left part of herself, her smile and her voice and her words on a spool of audio-film on my bed. I inserted it in the viewer and threw the picture on the wall. Soft yellow hair, her white face and her quiet words:

    “I hate good-byes, Chris. I’ve gone to the laboratory to do some extra work. Good luck. All of my love. When I see you again — you’ll be a man.”

    That was all.

    Priory waited outside while I saw it over four times. “I hate good-byes, Chris. I’ve gone . . . work. . . . luck. All . . . my love. . . .”

    I had made a film-spool myself the night before. I spotted it in the viewer and left it there. It only said good-bye.

    Priory walked halfway with me. I wouldn’t let him get on the Rocket Port monorail with me. I

just shook his hand, tight, and said, “It was fun today, Ralph.”

    “Yeah. Well, see you next Saturday, huh, Chris?”

    “I wish I could say yes.”

    “Say yes anyway. Next Saturday — the woods, the gang, the rockets, and Old Man Wickard and his trusty para-gun.”

    We laughed. “Sure. Next Saturday, early. Take — Take care of our mother, will you, Priory?”

    “That’s a silly question, you nut,” he said.

    “It is, isn’t it?”

    He swallowed. “Chris.”

    “Yeah?”

    “I’ll be waiting. Just like you waited and don’t have to wait any more. I’ll wait.”

    “Maybe it won’t be long, Priory. I hope not.”

    I jabbed him, once, in the arm. He jabbed back.

    The monorail door sealed. The car hurled itself away, and Priory was left behind.

    I stepped out at the Port. It was a five-hundred-yard walk down to the Administration building. It took me ten years to walk it.

    “Next time I see you you’ll be a man — “

    “Don’t tell anybody — “

    “I’ll wait, Chris — “

 It was all choked in my heart and it wouldn’t go away and it swam around in my eyes.

    I thought about my dreams. The Moon Rocket. It won’t be part of me, part of my dream any longer. I’ll be part of it.

    I felt small there, walking, walking, walking.

    The afternoon rocket to London was just taking off as I went down the ramp to the office. It shivered the ground and it shivered and thrilled my heart.

    I was beginning to grow up awfully fast.

    I stood watching the rocket until someone snapped their heels, cracked me a quick salute.

    I was numb.

    “C. M. Christopher?”

    “Yes, sir. Reporting, sir.”

    “This way, Christopher. Through that gate.”

    Through that gate and beyond the fence . . .

    This fence where we had pressed our faces and felt the wind turn warm and held to the fence and forgot who we were or where we came from but dreamed of who we might be and where we might go . . .

    This fence where had stood the boys who liked being boys who lived in a town and liked the town

and fairly liked school and liked football and liked their fathers and mothers . . .

    The boys who some time every hour of every day of every week thought on fire and stars and the fence beyond which they waited. . . . The boys who liked the rockets more.

    Mother, Ralph, I’ll see you. I’ll be back.

    Mother!

    Ralph!

    And, walking, I went beyond the fence.

The End

What an absolutely wonderful story.

It means a lot to me.

And people, that's exactly how it was like for me to leave university as an Aerospace Engineer and enter NAS, NASC Pensacola Florida as an AOCS Aviation Office Candidate. 

I well remember arrival at the airport and proceeding to the lobby where there was this enormously huge arrow pointing to this ridiculously tiny phone set in the wall. Telling me to pick up the phone and call the base.

Fictional Story Related Index

This is an index of full text reprints of stories that I have read that influenced me when I was young. They are rather difficult to come by today, as where I live they are nearly impossible to find. Yes, you can find them on the internet, behind paywalls. Ah, that’s why all those software engineers in California make all that money. Well, here they are FOR FREE. Enjoy reading them.

Movies that Inspired Me

Here are some movies that I consider noteworthy and worth a view. Enjoy.

The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad.
Jason and the Argonauts
The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973)
The Abominable Dr. Phibes (1971)

Stories that Inspired Me

Here are reprints in full text of stories that inspired me, but that are nearly impossible to find in China. I place them here as sort of a personal library that I can use for inspiration. The reader is welcome to come and enjoy a read or two as well.

Link
Space Cadet (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Link
Link
Link
Correspondence Course
Link
Link
Link
Link
Link
The Last Night
The Flying Machine
A story of escape.
All Summer in a day.
The Smile by Ray Bradbury
The menace from Earth
Delilah and the Space Rigger
Life-Line
The Tax-payer
The Pedestrian
Time for the stars.
Glory Road by Robert Heinlein
Starman Jones (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein.
The Lottery (Full Text) by Shirley Jackson
The Cold Equations (Full Text)
Farnham's Freehold (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Invisible Boy (Full Text) by Ray Bradbury
Job: A Comedy of Justice (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Spell my name with an "S" by Isaac Asimov
The Proud Robot (Full Text)
The Time Locker
Not the First (Full Text) by A.E. van Vogt
The Star Mouse (Full Text)
Space Jockey (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
He who shrank (Full Text).
Blowups Happen by Robert Heinlein

My Poetry

My Kitten Knows

Art that Moves Me

An experiment of a bird in a vacuum jar.

Articles & Links

You’ll not find any big banners or popups here talking about cookies and privacy notices. There are no ads on this site (aside from the hosting ads – a necessary evil). Functionally and fundamentally, I just don’t make money off of this blog. It is NOT monetized. Finally, I don’t track you because I just don’t care to.

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When Art was Beautiful – An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump

The (British) National Gallery’s Picture of the Month this month is Joseph Wright of Darby’s “An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump.”

The jar is held by a  scientist. He is showing the group how sucking air out of a jar creates a  vacuum. Starved of oxygen, the bird grows distressed, and the scientist  demonstrates how it cannot breathe within the vacuum.

The group reacts to this experiment in different ways. The two young  girls are clearly upset. A fatherly figure either consoles them or  explains the experiment to them. In contrast, the young boy directly  opposite leans in, engrossed. Next to him, a man holds a stopwatch,  timing the experiment. Another man, hands clasped, appears deep in  thought. The young couple seem only interested in each other. 

The fate of the bird is held in suspense. A boy holds an open cage –  is this so that the bird can go back in safely, or has he just released  it?

Wright 'of Derby' may  have left some clues within the painting. Some believe the glass  container on the table holds a skull, which in paintings usually acts as  a 'memento mori' – a reminder that we will all die one day. Candles and  skulls are often companions in art, the candle demonstrating the  passage of time and the skull its end.

An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump  can be seen as a work of the Enlightenment, an intellectual and  scientific movement across Europe in the 18th century. Alongside the  Industrial Revolution, this was a time of radical social, political and  technological change.

The children so starkly lit in the painting are part of the  generation who will inherit this new world, and who, like us, must  decide where they stand on the ethical questions raised by science and  progress. 

-The National Gallery                           

When Hollywood still knew how to make movies; The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973)

I have composed a number of posts that involved special effects by Ray Harryhausen. I listed them simply because, as a boy, the visuals and the adventure that was portrayed in the movies greatly appealed to me. They influenced me. Which was something that is most certainly lacking in the latest Hollywood fare. (That is, unless you are an LGBT with an inferiority complex.)

Here, I want to discuss another of his great works. The Golden Voyage of Sinbad.

Sinbad and his crew intercept a homunculus carrying a golden tablet. Koura, the creator of the homunculus and practitioner of evil magic, wants the tablet back and pursues Sinbad. Meanwhile Sinbad meets the Vizier who has another part of the interlocking golden map, and they mount a quest across the seas to solve the riddle of the map, accompanied by a slave girl with a mysterious tattoo of an eye on her  palm. They encounter strange beasts, tempests, and the dark interference of Koura along the way.

-AVXHM  
The golden voyage of Sinbad.
The golden voyage of Sinbad is a classic in itself. It too held claim to all sorts of creative monsters, some huge, some multi-limbed, some that flew, and others that were magical. All of which were amazing to me.

The Movie

It all starts to unravel when Sinbad fires an arrow at a strange creature that flies over his ship.

As the creature dodges the arrow, it ends up dropping an amulet it is carrying. Let me pause here for a second. A strange creature? It’s carrying a magic (we suppose, after all what other purpose would an amulet have) amulet, which it drops, and Sinbad gathers up.

Kali
Kali is a multi-armed creature creation that Sinbad must battle with. You can well imagine the problems and issues that you must contend with when dealing with a six armed purple creature.

Sinbad makes landfall, and almost immediately meets an evil sorcerer. We know he is evil because he immediately engages Sinbad in fisticuffs. His attempts to forcibly take the amulet from Sinbad is rebuffed.

The sorcerer’s name is Koura. He’s a fellow that you don’t want to get tangled up with.

So Sinbad seeks out a safe haven, and is eventually granted refuge by the benevolent ruler of the city, known as the Grand Vizier. This fellow too has tangled up with Koura. For today he has been forced to hide his face behind a beaten gold mask. You see, his face is all terribly disfigured after Koura burnt it away with a fireball.

Golden Voyage of Sinbad.
Check out the slave girl that tags along with Sinbad. Yowsa! ( Actress Caroline Munro ) This is how she spends the majority of The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (Gordon Hessler, 1973). Yet, despite the ludicrous neckline and the constant layer of oil/sweat she still manages to draw your eyes up and away from her chest and towards her eyes. It takes a lot of presence to up-stage that bust, but Munro had it by the ton.

The Vizier shows Sinbad a companion amulet and the drawing of a third one. All three amulets form a map that leads to a fountain of youth on the island of Lemuria.

Harryhausen’s creations include the winged, miniature homunculus; an  ensorcelled figurehead that tears itself loose from Sinbad’s ship; a  one-eyed centaur; a gryphon that guards the Fountain of Destiny; and,  most impressively, a six-armed statue of Kali which performs an Indian  dance before dueling against Sinbad’s men with six swords. 

It’s really  the Kali sequence that makes this such a memorable film. 

With his  typical attention to detail, Harryhausen hired an Indian dancer (Surya  Kumari, also a noted actress and singer) to choreograph and perform as  Kali with one of her students strapped to her back. 

The dance was then  scored with Indian musicians, and the sudden switch in flavor (as our  ears have already been conditioned to an hour or so of Rózsa’s romantic  adventure music) is in synch with the charged, magical atmosphere of the  statue coming to life. 

For the swordfight, nearly as elaborate as the  celebrated skeleton battle in Jason and the Argonauts, stunt  choreographer Fernando Poggi tied three of his men together to rehearse  the action with the actors, then removed themselves and let the actors  shadow-box before the cameras, with Harryhausen’s Kali to be added  later. 

It’s a showstopping fight and, it must be said, far more rousing  than the typical poke-with-spears action that so many Harryhausen action  scenes become (or, in fact, the earlier scene with the ship’s  figurehead). It’s one for the highlight reels. 

 -Midnight Only 

With the complete amulet, The Grand Vizier will be able to stop Koura’s ravages on the kingdom. And so Sinbad and the Vizier set sail on an expedition to Lemuria.

Caroline Munro
Listen up. After Caroline Munro was in a 007 film, she entered in one of my all time (yes my absolute all time) favorite cult movies. That’s right. Caroline’s first big role was in 1971, opposite Horror legend Vincent Price in “The Abominable Dr. Phibes” – playing the deceased Mrs. Victoria Regina Phibes. What a woman. What an actress!

However, Koura desires the amulet too. As all bad guys learn sooner or later, there is a price when using dark magic. His use of the amulet has taken it’s tool. For each time he used it, a little bit of life was stolen from him. Thus, he needs and covets that amulet in the vain hope of regaining his youth. You know, the youth and life that each spell he casts steals from him.

Koura sets sail determined to stop them. And thus, the adventure movie begins…

Some Background

It all sort of began with the movie The 7th Voyage of Sinbad (1958). This movie was a landmark in fantasy cinema, and was often imitated over the next decade.

The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad.

Most importantly, it brought to prominence the name of special effects man Ray Harryhausen and his fantastical creatures. Now, Ray Harryhausen was more than just a specialist in the process of stop-motion animation. He was a genus. Here, it is much like claymation. Created figurines are meticulously moved and photographed one frame at a time.

The Golden Voyage of Sinbad
Sinbad (John Philip law) fights the centaur while (slave girl) companion Margiana (Caroline Munro) stands in the background. That’s all very interesting especially how the centaur is pictured.

He was so successful at it that Harryhausen went on to build a substantial career in this field over the next two decades.

He found a nitche in the world of Greek mythology. He would revisit the Sinbad mythos twice, here and later with the movie Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger (1977). The Golden Voyage of Sinbad is one of Ray Harryhausen’s most acclaimed works and one that shows him at the height of his art.

The golden youyage of Sinbad.
Ray Harryhausen demonstrates that special effects don’t need to be state of the art to be edge of the seat, this film sees the adventurer and his crew on a quest to defeat evil magician Koura and solve the riddle of a mysterious interlocking golden map. Sinbad must fight his way past several of Harryhausen’s ingenious stop-motion animated monsters along the way, including a one-eyed centaur, and his own ship’s wooden figurehead, magically brought to life.

Most Ray Harryhausen films tend to be set around Harryhausen’s provision of profound creature effects. Which unfortunately tended to make the real actors and their intervening action rather wooden. However, as a child watching these movies, I noticed none of that.

The same is true with the dialog. No matter how chunky or cheesy it appeared, it always appealed to me. The quest for adventure screamed at me, and the livid monsters occupied my young impressionable mind.

The golden voyage of Sinbad 3
Seriously, just how many movies do you find a griffin doing battle with a minaraur or a cyclops – minataur hybrid? Not often. Well, this movie has this and much, much more.
 When I was a child, The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1973) and Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger  (1977) were one and the same – a four-hour Sinbad miniseries, with all  the islands, wizards, beautiful girls, and Ray Harryhausen monsters  randomly distributed so that I wasn’t exactly sure which belonged to  which. 

Understand that every trip to the video store meant that I would  stand there, staring at all the boxes, ruling out the R-rated films or  anything that looked remotely adult (verboten when I was a child), and  eventually, inevitably, I would grab a Ray Harryhausen movie and hand it  to my mother or father, who would just say, “This one, again?” 

Jason and the Argonauts (1963), Mysterious Island  (1961), or a Sinbad movie. These films were the foundation stones upon  which my imagination was built. 

Even though the early 80’s belonged to  George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, I always held the Harryhausen films  in special regard. Before I even learned his name, I knew these films  were connected – I recognized the stop-motion animation and the look of  the monsters. (Of course that centaur only has one eye. He’s probably  related to those cyclopes in The 7th Voyage of Sinbad.) 

These films had special  special effects. Having watched just about every non-R-rated fantasy  movie on the video store shelves, I knew there was a significant  difference between One Million B.C. (1940), the Victor Mature movie with lizards and armadillos posing as dinosaurs, and One Million Years B.C.  (1966), the remake with Harryhausen’s pterodactyls lifting Raquel Welch  off the ground. 

You can’t dress a lizard up to look like a pterodactyl.  

The funny thing is that I was appreciating the films from a  point-of-view that was already becoming outdated. The days of  stop-motion were coming to an end, with his swan song, Clash of the Titans  (1981), released around the time that I was just beginning to  appreciate his films. 

Though both Lucas and Spielberg used stop-motion  effects in Star Wars (1977) and Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), by the end of the decade The Abyss (1989) would announce a new direction for cinema tricks. 

-Midnight Only

Both Brian Clemens and Ray Harryhausen plunder world mythology somewhat indiscriminately. Which more often than not resulted in a kind of peculiar multi-cultural polyglot. Not that it matters, of course, but it is curious.

The golden voyage of Sinbad 4
Caroline Munro looks splendid in her costume, low cut almost everywhere. The rest of the cast support well. Tom Baker is excellent as the villain Koura. He makes him sympathetic; what drives him is common to all people. He just uses different means to gain his ends. He dominates the scenes he is in and it is a pity that more big screen roles never came his way. He was the best ‘Doctor Who’ in the BBC series, in my opinion of course. A good fantasy romp to appeal to the adventurer in all of us. Did I mention Caroline Munro’s costume? Oh, I did.

Today, as an adult, I guess that I am more of a purist. But as a kid, nah… who the heck cared? Consider their broad paintbrush. There is Kali from Hindu religion, a griffin and combination centaur/cyclops from the Greek myths, the homunculus from mediaeval alchemy, Lemuria, and of course the backdrop from the Arabian Nights cycle.

As an aside, did you know that the idea of Lemuria was first posited by biologist Ernst Haeckel in the 1870s. It preceded the notion of continental drift. It was used with the belief of a sunken land in order to  explain how lemurs managed to get between  Africa and India. Later, this theory was bastardized and quickly appropriated by the 19th  Century Theosophist movement.
The golden voyage of Sinbad 5
‘Golden Voyage’ is much better than the later ‘Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger’ and equal to the earlier ‘Seventh Voyage of Sinbad’. The Harryhausen creatures are impressive. Stop motion animation does give solidity to the image, more so than the usual CGI effect. There are some fine ones here including a one eyed centaur, a homunculus, a griffin, a six armed statue, a ship’s wooden figurehead. The story is standard but the effects, the locations and the plot weave together well. There is also a dry humor in the dialogue which is entertaining. Scenes like the sword fight with the six armed statute (with six swords!) or the final confrontation at the fountain of wisdom (or something like that) are exciting. The great Miklos Rosza’s music adds considerably to the atmosphere. John Philip Law is OK as Sinbad and does attempt an Arabian accent unlike the usual English one, but the role isn’t Shakespearean and he does well enough.

All of this trivality is far less important than the spectacular beauty of Ray Harryhausen’s various set-pieces. Which, by this time, were at the absolute peak of their form.

Harryhausen offers us [1] a six-armed statue of Kali brought to life in a sword-duel; [2] a to-the-death battle between a griffin and a cyclopean centaur; [3] a magically animated ship’s figurehead; and, best of all, [4] the homunculus that Tom Baker brings to life, teasing and prodding it, as it lies pinned to a table.

Sinbad the sailor using an early version of Google Maps.
Sinbad the sailor using an early version of Google Maps. This is a fine fantasy/adventure film, and definitely one worth watching by any fans of the genre, as well as Ray Harryhausen fans. The main problem is that the film tends to meander at times. There are also a few minor problems with direction or editing, such as the less-than-convincing sword fight in the cave near the end of the film. Also, the mostly episodic nature of the script lessens the overall impact. It often feels like a string of short stories arbitrarily strung together, although in the end, the overarching goal ties the film together well enough. But what “short stories” those are!
Harryhausen, who made this film with his longtime collaborator and  co-producer Charles H. Schneer, was careful to separate this film from 7th Voyage; he seemed to dislike the label of “sequel.” (In his 2003 book An Animated Life, Harryhausen states that he and Schneer even “strenuously” tried to avoid the term regarding Eye of the Tiger, curiously enough.) 

Indeed, the viewer need not have seen the former film, though naturally it exists in its shadow. The 7th Voyage of Sinbad is a classic of fantasy filmmaking to stand beside its chief inspiration, The Thief of Bagdad (1940). 

Golden Voyage  is just another fun Harryhausen movie, the perfect way to pass a  Saturday afternoon. 

Law does a credible job as our new Sinbad (replacing  7th Voyage‘s Kerwin Mathews), embodying Harryhausen’s image of the Arabian Nights hero: handsome, athletic, but not a bodybuilder. 

The  story, conceived by Harryhausen and revised, polished, and scripted by  Brian Clemens (of the TV series The Avengers, as well as Captain Kronos,  which also featured Caroline Munro), sends Sinbad on a treasure hunt on  behalf of a disfigured Vizier in a golden mask (Douglas Wilmer, Jason and the Argonauts).  

Their quest involves retrieving the lost pieces of an amulet, which  will point the way to an ancient, magical source of great knowledge and  power. 

There’s always an evil magician in pursuit, of course, and in  this case it’s Baker’s Prince Koura, who controls gargoyle-like  homunculi and lusts after the same prize. 

The story might be  perfunctory, but it’s well-paced, with attractive location shooting in  Spain to stand in for both the fictionalized Middle East and Lemuria. (Plans to shoot in India – which would have provided a wonderful look to the film – were discarded after hearing horror stories about “appalling  red tape and bureaucracy” encountered by other Hollywood productions shooting there.) 

Composer Miklós Rózsa (The Thief of Bagdad, Ben-Hur) is the ideal stand-in for 7th Voyage‘s Bernard Herrmann, capturing the appropriate “Orientalist” feel. 

 -Midnight Only 

The Golden Voyage of Sinbad is also notable for many of the up-and-coming stars. There is Tom Baker who, the following year, would become the fourth incarnation of tv’s Doctor Who (1963-89). There is cult queen Caroline Munro; and Martin Shaw, later hunk hero of Clemens’ superior action man tv show The Professionals.

The Golden Voyage of Sinbad 7
The script, production/set design and costumes easily propel you into a captivating fantasy world, and Harryhausen’s creatures, as always, are a delight to watch. No, they’re not exactly realistic–no more realistic looking than cgi, in my opinion–but I’m not looking for realism when I watch a film like this. I’m looking for brilliant artistry, especially if it is an adventure with pretty girls, and Harryhausen’s stop-motion animated creatures fit the bill.

Conclusion

This is a great movie to introduce the kids to, to spend a lazy hazy august afternoon, or just to relax to. There are some amazing scenes, and nowhere else in movie-land will you see a six-armed statue of Kali which performs an Indian dance before dueling against Sinbad’s men with six swords. I enjoyed it and I think that maybe you the reader would enjoy it as well.

Ray Harryhausen’s other films

Links

Torrent Links

You can watch it for free if you don’t mind waiting a half an hour to half a day to download the torrent.

For those of you who are unaware. Torrents are parts of files that are spread out in tiny packets all over the internet. You use a "Bit Torrent" client to vacuum up all those little bits and pieces of the file. It then assembles the file into a movie that you can watch. The time that this takes can vary from a few minutes to weeks depending on how popular or obscure your searched file is.

You will need an application to manage the download. I recommend the free application VUZE. To download the video is thus easy. Install VUZE, and then click on one of the following torrent links.

Depending on where you live, you might not have the freedom to access these sites and the ISP might block them from access, or the search engines might black out their search results. Americans, in particular, might have some real problems. Therefore, I listed the most accessible torrent sites available to Americans. Pirate Bay and 1337X. I think that Kick Ass Torrents is still blocked for all Americans.

Movies that Inspired Me

Here are some movies that I consider noteworthy and worth a view. Enjoy.

The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad.
Jason and the Argonauts

Stories that Inspired Me

Here are reprints in full text of stories that inspired me, but that are nearly impossible to find in China. I place them here as sort of a personal library that I can use for inspiration. The reader is welcome to come and enjoy a read or two as well.

Link
Space Cadet (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Link
Link
Link
Link
Link
Link
Link
Link
The Last Night
The Flying Machine
A story of escape.
All Summer in a day.
The Smile by Ray Bradbury
The menace from Earth
Delilah and the Space Rigger
Life-Line
The Tax-payer
The Pedestrian
Time for the stars.
Glory Road by Robert Heinlein
Starman Jones (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein.
The Lottery (Full Text) by Shirley Jackson
The Cold Equations (Full Text)
Farnham's Freehold (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Invisible Boy (Full Text) by Ray Bradbury
Job: A Comedy of Justice (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Spell my name with an "S" by Isaac Asimov
The Proud Robot (Full Text)
The Time Locker
Not the First (Full Text) by A.E. van Vogt

My Poetry

My Kitten Knows

Articles & Links

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“The Proud Robot” (Full Text) by Henry Kuttner (Lewis Padgett)

I love this story. It reminds me of…me.

Back in the day, I had amassed many, many tomes and collections of fine science fiction stories. I really loved the works from the “Golden Age” of science fiction, and one of my favorite writers was Lewis Padgett. Not well known, but completely awesome.

He wrote a series of short stories revolving around a mad scientist that produced brilliant work when he was shit-faced drunk. It’s not real life. That’s why I love it so. It’s so anti-PC.

Here is one of his best. This is a lively and often frankly hilarious account of how a very gifted (when under the influence of the demon Drink) scientist struggles to come to grips with the wackiness of his almost-perfect robot.

It’s one of his many, many creations while drunk. In this case, it is one in which he had just created with quite extraordinary powers, for a purpose which he cannot remember – and with his seemingly inextricable financial predicament(s).

It was first published in the October 1943 issue of Astounding Science Fiction as by “Lewis Padgett”, a nom de plume used by Henry Kuttner (1915–1958) and his wife C.L. Moore (1911-1987) for many of the 200+ fantasy, s-f and horror stories which they wrote together, essentially during the forties, mostly under this name.

The Proud Robot

ORIGINALLY the robot was intended to be a can opener. Things often happened that way with Gallegher, who played at science by ear. He was, as he often remarked, a casual genius. Sometimes he’d start with a twist of wire, a few batteries, and a button hook, and before he finished, he might contrive a new type of refrigerating unit. The affair of the time locker had begun that way, with Gallegher singing hoarsely under his breath and peering, quite drunk, into cans of paint.

At the moment he was nursing a hangover. A disjointed, lanky, vaguely boneless man with a lock of dark hair falling untidily over leis forehead, he lay on the couch in the lab and manipulated his mechanical liquor bar. A very dry Martini drizzled slowly from the spigot into his receptive mouth.
He was trying to remember something, but not trying too hard. It had to do with the robot, of course. Well, it didn’t matter.

“Hey, Joe,” Gallegher said.

The robot stood proudly before the mirror and examined its innards. Its hull was transparent, and wheels were going around at a great rate inside.

“When you call me that,” Joe remarked, “whisper. And get that cat out of here.”

“Your ears aren’t that good.”

“They are. I can hear the cat walking about, all right.”

“What does it sound like?” Gallegher inquired, interested.

“Just like drums,” said the robot, with a put-upon air. “And when you talk, it’s like thunder.” Joe’s voice was a discordant squeak, so Gallegher meditated on saying something about glass-houses and casting the first stone. He brought his attention, with some effort, to the luminous door panel, where a shadow loomed—a familiar shadow, Gallegher thought.

“It’s Brock,” the annunciator said. “Harrison Brock. Let me in!”

“The door’s unlocked.” Gallegher didn’t stir. He looked gravely at the well-dressed, middle-aged man who came in, and tried to remember. Brock was between forty and fifty; he had a smoothly massaged, clean-shaved face, and wore an expression of harassed intolerance. Probably Gallegher knew the man. He wasn’t sure.

Oh, well.

Brock looked around the big, untidy laboratory, blinked at the robot, searched for a chair, and failed to find it. Arms akimbo, he rocked back and forth and glared at the prostrate scientist.

“Well?” he said.

“Never start conversations that way,” Gallegher mumbled, siphoning another Martini down his gullet. “I’ve had enough trouble today. Sit down and take it easy. There’s a dynamo behind you. It isn’t very dusty, is it?”

“Did you get it?” Brock snapped. “That’s all I want to know. You’ve had a week. I’ve a check for ten thousand in my pocket. Do you want it, or don’t you?”

“Sure,” Gallegher said. He extended a large, groping hand. “Give.”

Caveat emptor. What am I buying?”

“Don’t you know?” the scientist asked, honestly puzzled.

Brock began to bounce up and down in a harassed fashion. “My God,” he said. “They told me you could help me if anybody could. Sure. And they also said it’d be like pulling teeth to get sense out of you. Are you a technician or a driveling idiot?”

Gallegher pondered. “Wait a minute. I’m beginning to remember. I talked to you last week, didn’t I?”

“You talked—” Brock’s round face turned pink. “Yes! You lay there swilling liquor and babbled poetry. You sang ’Frankie and Johnnie.’ And you finally got around to accepting my commission.”

“The fact is,” Gallegher said, “I have been drunk. I often get drunk. Especially on my vacation. It releases my subconscious, and then I can work. I’ve made my best gadgets when I was tizzied,” he went on happily. “Everything seems so clear then. Clear as a bell. I mean a bell, don’t I? Anyway—” He lost the thread and looked puzzled. “Anyway, what are you talking about?”

“Are you going to keep quiet?” the robot demanded from its post before the mirror.

Brock jumped. Gallegher waved a casual hand. “Don’t mind Joe. I just finished him last night, and I rather regret it.”

“A robot?”

“A robot. But he’s no good, you know. I made him when I was drunk, and I haven’t the slightest idea how or why. All he’ll do is stand there and admire himself. And sing. He sings like a banshee. You’ll hear him presently.”

With an effort Brock brought his attention back to the matter in hand. “Now look, Gallegher. I’m in a spot. You promised to help me. If you don’t, I’m a ruined man.”

“I’ve been ruined for years,” the scientist remarked. “It never bothers me. I just go along working for a living and making things in my spare time. Making all sorts of things. You know, if I’d really studied, I’d have been another Einstein. So they tell me. As it is, my subconscious picked up a first-class scientific training somewhere. Probably that’s why I never bothered. When I’m drunk or sufficiently absent-minded, I can work out the damnedest problems.”

“You’re drunk now,” Brock accused.

“I approach the pleasanter stages. How would you feel if you woke up and found you’d made a robot for some unknown reason, and hadn’t the slightest idea of the creature’s attributes?”

“Well—”

“I don’t feel that way at all,” Gallegher murmured. “Probably you take life too seriously, Brock. Wine is a mocker; strong drink is raging. Pardon me. I rage.” He drank another Martini.

Brock began to pace around the crowded laboratory, circling various enigmatic and untidy objects. “If you’re a scientist, Heaven help science.”

“I’m the Larry Adler of science,” Gallegher said. “He was a musician—lived some hundreds of years ago, I think. I’m like him. Never took a lesson in my life. Can I help it if my subconscious likes practical jokes?”

“Do you know who I am?” Brock demanded.

“Candidly, no. Should I?”

There was bitterness in the other’s voice. “You might have the courtesy to remember, even though it was a week ago. Harrison Brock. Me. I own Vox-View Pictures.”

“No,” the robot said suddenly, “it’s no use. No use at all, Brock.”

“What the—”

Gallegher sighed wearily. “I forget the damned thing’s alive. Mr. Brock, meet Joe. Joe, meet Mr. Brock—of Vox-View.”

Joe turned, gears meshing within his transparent skull. “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Brock. Allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune in hearing my lovely voice.”

“Uh,” said the magnate inarticulately. “Hello.”

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” Gallegher put in, sotto voce. “Joe’s like that. A peacock. No use arguing with him, either.”

The robot ignored this aside. “But it’s no use, Mr. Brock,” he went on squeakily. “I’m not interested in money. I realize it would bring happiness to many if I consented to appear in your pictures, but fame means nothing to me. Nothing. Consciousness of beauty is enough.”

Brock began to chew his lips. “Look,” he said savagely, “I didn’t come here to offer you a picture job. See? Am I offering you a contract? Such colossal nerve— Pah! You’re crazy.”

“Your schemes are perfectly transparent,” the robot remarked coldly. “I can see that you’re overwhelmed by my beauty and the loveliness of my voice—its grand tonal qualities. You needn’t pretend you don’t want me, just so you can get me at a lower price. I said I wasn’t interested.”

“You’re cr-r-razy!” Brock howled, badgered beyond endurance, and Joe calmly turned back to his mirror.

“Don’t talk so loudly,” the robot warned. “The discordance is deafening. Besides, you’re ugly and I don’t like to look at you.” Wheels and cogs buzzed inside the transplastic shell. Joe extended his eyes on stalks and regarded himself with every appearance of appreciation.

Gallegher was chuckling quietly on the couch. “Joe has a high irritation value,” he said. “I’ve found that out already. I must have given him some remarkable senses, too. An hour ago he started to laugh his damn fool head off. No reason, apparently. I was fixing myself a bite to eat. Ten minutes after that I slipped on an apple core I’d thrown away and came down hard.

Joe just looked at me. ’That was it,’ he said. ’Logics of probability. Cause and effect. I knew you were going to drop that apple core and then step on it when you went to pick up the mail.’

Like the White Queen, I suppose. It’s a poor memory that doesn’t work both ways.”

Brock sat on the small dynamo—there were two, the larger one named Monstro, and the smaller one serving Gallegher as a bank—and took deep breaths. “Robots are nothing new.”

“This one is. I hate its gears. It’s beginning to give me an inferiority complex. Wish I knew why I’d made it,” Gallegher sighed. “Oh, well. Have a drink?”

“No. I came here on business. Do you seriously mean you spent last week building a robot instead of solving the problem I hired you for?”

“Contingent, wasn’t it?” Gallegher asked. “I think I remember that.”

“Contingent,” Brock said with satisfaction. “Ten thousand, if and when.”

“Why not give me the dough and take the robot? He’s worth that. Put him in one of your pictures.”

“I won’t have any pictures unless you figure out an answer,” Brock snapped. “I told you all about it.”

“I have been drunk,” Gallegher said. “My mind has been wiped clear, as by a sponge. I am as a little child. Soon I shall be as a drunken little child. Meanwhile, if you’d care to explain the matter again—”

Brock gulped down his passion, jerked a magazine at random from the bookshelf, and took out a stylo. “All right. My preferred stocks are at twenty-eight, ’way below par—” He scribbled figures on the magazine.

“If you’d taken that medieval folio next to that, it’d have cost you a pretty penny,” Gallegher said lazily. “So you’re the sort of guy who writes on tablecloths, eh? Forget this business of stocks and stuff. Get down to cases. Who are you trying to gyp?”

“It’s no use,” the robot said from before its mirror. “I won’t sign a contract. People may come and admire me, if they like, but they’ll have to whisper in my presence.”

“A madhouse,” Brock muttered, trying to get a grip on himself. “Listen, Gallegher. I told you all this a week ago, but—”

“Joe wasn’t here then. Pretend like you’re talking to him.” “Uh—look. You’ve heard of Vox-View Pictures, at least.”

“Sure. The biggest and best television company in the business.
Sonatone’s about your only competitor.”

“Sonatone’s squeezing me out.”

Gallegher looked puzzled. “I don’t see how. You’ve got the best product. Tri-dimensional color, all sorts of modern improvements, the top actors, musicians, singers—”

“No use,” the robot said. “I won’t.”

“Shut up, Joe. You’re tops in your field, Brock. I’ll hand you that. And I’ve always heard you were fairly ethical. What’s Sonatone got on you?”

Brock made helpless gestures. “Oh, it’s politics. The bootleg theaters. I can’t buck ’em. Sonatone helped elect the present administration, and the police just wink when I try to have the bootleggers raided.”

“Bootleg theaters?” Gallegher asked, scowling a trifle. “I’ve heard something—”

“It goes ’way back. To the old sound-film days. Home television killed sound film and big theaters. People were conditioned away from sitting in audience groups to watch a screen. The home televisors got good. It was more fun to sit in an easy-chair, drink beer, and watch the show. Television wasn’t a rich man’s hobby by that time. The meter system brought the price down to middle-class levels. Everybody knows that.”

“I don’t,” Gallegher said. “I never pay attention to what goes on outside of my lab, unless I have to. Liquor and a selective mind. I ignore everything that doesn’t affect me directly. Explain the whole thing in detail, so I’ll get a complete picture. I don’t mind repetition. Now, what about this meter system of yours?”

“Televisors are installed free. We never sell ’em; we rent them. People pay according to how many hours they have the set tuned in. We run a continuous show, stage plays, wire-tape films, operas, orchestras, singers, vaudeville—everything. If you use your televisor a lot, you pay proportionately. The man comes around once a month and reads the meter. Which is a fair system.

Anybody can afford a Vox-View. Sonatone and the other companies do the same thing, but Sonatone’s the only big competitor I’ve got. At least, the only one that’s crooked as hell. The rest of the boys—they’re smaller than I am, but I don’t step on their toes. Nobody’s ever called me a louse,” Brock said darkly.

“So what?”

“So Sonatone has started to depend on audience appeal. It was impossible till lately—you couldn’t magnify tri-dimensional television on a big screen without streakiness and mirage-effect. That’s why the regular three-by-four home screens were used. Results were perfect. But Sonatone’s bought a lot of the ghost theaters all over the country—”

“What’s a ghost theater?” Gallegher asked.

“Well—before sound films collapsed, the world was thinking big. Big—you know? Ever heard of the Radio City Music Hall? That wasn’t in it! Television was coming in, and competition was fierce. Sound-film theaters got bigger and more elaborate. They were palaces. Tremendous. But when television was perfected, nobody went to the theaters any more, and it was often too expensive a job to tear ’em down. Ghost theaters—see? Big ones and little ones. Renovated them. And they’re showing Sonatone programs. Audience appeal is quite a factor. The theaters charge plenty, but people flock into ’em. Novelty and the mob instinct.”
Gallegher closed his eyes. “What’s to stop you from doing the same thing?”

“Patents,” Brock said briefly. “I mentioned that dimensional tele­vision couldn’t be used on big screens till lately. Sonatone signed an agreement with me ten years ago that any enlarging improvements would be used mutually. They crawled out of that contract. Said it was faked, and the courts upheld them. They uphold the courts—politics. Anyhow, Sonatone’s technicians worked out a method of using the large screen. They took out patents—twenty-seven patents, in fact, covering every possible variation on the idea. My technical staff has been working day and night trying to find some similar method that won’t be an infringement, but Sonatone’s got it all sewed up. They’ve a system called the Magna. It can be hooked up to any type of tele­visor—but they’ll only allow it to be used on Sonatone machines. See?”

“Unethical, but legal,” Gallegher said. “Still, you’re giving your customers more for their money. People want good stuff. The size doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah,” Brock said bitterly, “but that isn’t all. The newspapers are full of A.A.—it’s a new catchword. Audience Appeal. The herd instinct. You’re right about people wanting good stuff—but would you buy Scotch at four a quart if you could get it for half that amount?”

“Depends on the quality. What’s happening?”

“Bootleg theaters,” Brock said. “They’ve opened all over the country. They show Vox-View products, and they’re using the Magna enlarger system Sonatone’s got patented. The admission price is low—lower than the rate of owning a Vox-View in your own home. There’s audience appeal. There’s the thrill of something a bit illegal. People are having their Vox-Views taken out right and left. I know why. They can go to a bootleg theater instead.”

“It’s illegal,” Gallegher said thoughtfully.

“So were speakeasies, in the Prohibition Era. A matter of protection, that’s all. I can’t get any action through the courts. I’ve tried. I’m running in the red. Eventually I’ll be broke. I can’t lower my home rental fees on Vox-Views. They’re nominal already. I make my profits through quantity. Now, no profits. As for these bootleg theaters, it’s pretty obvious who’s backing them.”

“Sonatone?”

“Sure. Silent partners. They get the take at the box office. ’What they want is to squeeze me out of business, so they’ll have a monopoly. After that they’ll give the public junk and pay their artists starvation salaries. With me it’s different. I pay my staff what they’re worth—plenty.”

“And you offered me a lousy ten thousand,” Gallegher remarked.

“Uh-huh!”

“That was only the first installment,” Brock said hastily. “You can name your own fee. Within reason,” he added.

“I shall. An astronomical sum. Did I say I’d accept the commission a week ago?”

“You did.”

“Then I must have had some idea how to solve the problem,” Gallegher pondered. “Let’s see. I didn’t mention anything in particular, did I?”

“You kept talking about marble slabs and . . . uh . . . your sweetie.”

“Then I was singing,” Gallegher explained largely. ” ’St. James Infirmary.’ Singing calms my nerves, and Lord knows they need it sometimes. Music and liquor. ’I often wonder what the vintners buy—’ “

“What?”

” ’One half so precious as the stuff they sell.’ Let it go. I am quoting Omar. It means nothing. Are your technicians any good?”

“The best. And the best paid.”

“They can’t find a magnifying process that won’t infringe on the Sonatone Magna patents?”

“In a nutshell, that’s it.”

“I suppose I’ll have to do some research,” Gallegher said sadly. I hate it like poison. Still, the sum of the parts equals the whole. Does that make sense to you? It doesn’t to me. I have trouble with words. After I say things, I start wondering what I’ve said. Better than watching a play,” he finished wildly. “I’ve got a headache. Too much talk and not enough liquor. Where were we?”

“Approaching the madhouse,” Brock suggested. “If you weren’t my last resort, I’d—”

“No use,” the robot said squeakily. “You might as well tear up your contract, Brock. I won’t sign it. Fame means nothing to me—nothing.”

“If you don’t shut up,” Gallegher warned, “I’m going to scream in your ears.”

“All right!” Joe shrilled. “Beat me! Go on, beat me! The meaner you are, the faster I’ll have my nervous system disrupted, and then I’ll be dead. I don’t care. I’ve got no instinct of self-preservation. Beat me. See if I care.”

“He’s right, you know,” the scientist said after a pause. “And it’s the only logical way to respond to blackmail or threats. The sooner it’s over, the better. There aren’t any gradations with Joe. Anything really painful to him will destroy him. And he doesn’t give a damn.”

“Neither do I,” Brock grunted. “What I want to find out—”

“Yeah. I know. Well, I’ll wander around and see what occurs to me. Can I get into your studios?”

“Here’s a pass.” Brock scribbled something on the back of a card.

“Will you get to work on it right away?”

“Sure,” Gallegher lied. “Now you run along and take it easy. Try and cool off. Everything’s under control. I’ll either find a solution to your problem pretty soon or else—”

“Or else what?”

“Or else I won’t,” the scientist finished blandly, and fingered the buttons on a control panel near the couch. “I’m tired of Martinis. Why didn’t I make that robot a mechanical bartender, while I was at it? Even the effort of selecting and pushing buttons is depressing at times. Yeah, I’ll get to work on the business, Brock. Forget it.”

The magnate hesitated. “Well, you’re my only hope. I needn’t bother to mention that if there’s anything I can do to help you—”

“A blonde,” Gallegher murmured. “That gorgeous, gorgeous star of yours, Silver O’Keefe. Send her over. Otherwise I want nothing.”

“Good-by, Brock,” the robot said squeakily. “Sorry we couldn’t get together on the contract, but at least you’ve had the ineluctable delight of hearing my beautiful voice, not to mention the pleasure of seeing me. Don’t tell too many people how lovely I am. I really don’t want to be bothered with mobs. They’re noisy.”

“You don’t know what dogmatism means till you’ve talked to Joe,” Gallegher said. “Oh, well. See you later. Don’t forget the blonde.”

Brock’s lips quivered. He searched for words, gave it up as a vain task, and turned to the door.

“Good-by, you ugly man,” Joe said.

Gallegher winced as the door slammed, though it was harder on the robot’s supersensitive ears than on his own. “Why do you go on like that?” he inquired. “You nearly gave the guy apoplexy.”

“Surely he didn’t think he was beautiful,” Joe remarked. “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.”

“How stupid you are. You’re ugly, too.”

“And you’re a collection of rattletrap gears, pistons and cogs. You’ve got worms,” said Gallegher, referring, of course, to certain mechanisms in the robot’s body.

“I’m lovely.” Joe stared raptly into the mirror.

“Maybe, to you. Why did I make you transparent, I wonder?”

“So others could admire me. I have X-ray vision, of course.”

“And wheels in your head. Why did I put your radioatomic brain in your stomach? Protection?”

Joe didn’t answer. He was humming in a maddeningly squeaky voice, shrill and nerve-racking. Gallegher stood it for a while, fortify­ing himself with a gin rickey from the siphon.

“Get it up!” he yelped at last. “You sound like an old-fashioned subway train going around a curve.”

“You’re merely jealous,” Joe scoffed, but obediently raised his tone to a supersonic pitch. There was silence for a half-minute. Then all the dogs in the neighborhood began to howl.

Wearily Gallegher dragged his lanky frame up from the couch. He might as well get out. Obviously there was no peace to be had in the laboratory. Not with that animated junk pile inflating his ego all over the place. Joe began to laugh in an off-key cackle.

Gallegher winced.

“What now?”

“You’ll find out.”

Logic of causation and effect, influenced by probabilities, X-ray vision and other enigmatic senses the robot no doubt possessed. Gallegher cursed softly, found a shapeless black hat, and made for the door. He opened it to admit a short, fat man who bounced painfully off the scientist’s stomach.

“Whoof! What a corny sense of humor that jackass has. Hello, Mr. Kennicott. Glad to see you. Sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”
Mr. Kennicott’s swarthy face twisted malignantly. “Don’ wanna no drink. Wanna my money. You gimme. Howzabout it?”

Gallegher looked thoughtfully at nothing. “Well, the fact is, I was just going to collect a check.”

“I sella you my diamonds. You say you gonna make somet’ing wit’ ’em. You gimme check before. It go bounca, bounca, bounca. Why is?”

“It was rubber,” Gallegher said faintly. “I never can keep track of my bank balance.”

Kennicott showed symptoms of going bounca on the threshold. “You gimme back diamonds, eh?”

“Well, I used ’em in an experiment, I forget just what. You know, Mr. Kennicott, I think I was a little drunk when I bought them, wasn’t I?”

“Dronk,” the little man agreed. “Mad wit’ vino, sure. So whatta? I wait no longer. Awready you put me off too much. Pay up now or elsa.”

“Go away, you dirty man,” Joe said from within the room. “You’re awful.”

Gallegher hastily shouldered Kennicott out into the street and latched the door behind him. “A parrot;” he explained. “I’m going to wring its neck pretty soon. Now about that money. I admit I owe it to you. I’ve just taken on a big job, and when I’m paid, you’ll get yours.”

“Bah to such stuff,” Kennicott said. “You gotta position, eh? You are technician wit’ some big company, Ai? Ask for ahead-salary.”

“I did,” Gallegher sighed. “I’ve drawn my salary for six months ahead. Now look, I’ll have that dough for you in a couple of days. Maybe I can get an advance from my client. O. K.?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Ah-h, nutsa. I waita one day. Two daysa, maybe. Enough. You get money. Awright. If not, O. K., calabozo for you.”

“Two days is plenty,” Gallegher said, relieved. “Say, are there any of those bootleg theaters around here?”

“Better you get to work an’ not waste time.”

“That’s my work. I’m making a survey. How can I find a bootleg place?”

“Easy. You go downtown, see guy in doorway. He sell you tickets. Anywhere. All over.”

“Swell,” Gallegher said, and bade the little man adieu. Why had he bought diamonds from Kennicott? It would be almost worth while to have his subconscious amputated. It did the most extraordinary things. It worked on inflexible principles of logic, but that logic was completely alien to Gallegher’s conscious mind. The results, though, were often surprisingly good, and always surprising. That was the worst of being a scientist who knew no science—who played by ear.

There was diamond dust in a retort in the laboratory, from some unsatisfactory experiment Gallegher’s subconscious had performed; and he had a fleeting memory of buying the stones from Kennicott. Curious. Maybe—oh, yeah. They’d gone into Joe. Bearings or something. Dismantling the robot wouldn’t help now, for the diamonds had certainly been reground. Why the devil hadn’t he used commercial stones, quite as satisfactory, instead of purchasing blue-whites of the finest water? The best was none too good for Gallegher’s subconscious. It had a fine freedom from commercial instincts. It just didn’t understand the price system or the basic principles of economics.

Gallegher wandered downtown like a Diogenes seeking truth. It was early evening, and the luminates were flickering on overhead, pale bars of light against darkness. A sky sign blazed above Manhattan’s towers. Air-taxis, skimming along at various arbitrary levels, paused for passengers at the elevator landings. Heigh-ho.

Downtown, Gallegher began to look for doorways. He found an occupied one at last, but the man was selling post cards. Gallegher declined and headed for the nearest bar, feeling the need of replenishment. It was a mobile bar, combining the worst features of a Coney Island ride with uninspired cocktails, and Gallegher hesitated on the threshold. But at last he seized a chair as it swung past and relaxed as much as possible. He ordered three rickeys and drank them in rapid succession. After that he called the bartender over and asked him about bootleg theaters.

“Hell, yes,” the man said, producing a sheaf of tickets from his apron. “How many?”

“One. Where do I go?”

“Two-twenty-eight. This street. Ask for Tony.”

“Thanks,” Gallegher said, and, having paid exorbitantly, crawled out of the chair and weaved away. Mobile bars were an improvement he didn’t appreciate. Drinking, he felt, should be performed in a state of stasis, since one eventually reached that stage, anyway.

The door was at the bottom of a flight of steps, and there was a grilled panel set in it. When Gallegher knocked, the visascreen lit up—obviously a one-way circuit, for the doorman was invisible.

“Tony here?” Gallegher said.

The door opened, revealing a tired-looking man in pneumo-slacks, which failed in their purpose of building up his skinny figure. “Got a ticket? Let’s have it. O. K., bud. Straight ahead. Show now going on. Liquor served in the bar on your left.”

Gallegher pushed through sound-proofed curtains at the end of a short corridor and found himself in what appeared to be the foyer of an ancient theater, circa 1980, when plastics were the great fad. He smelled out the bar, drank expensively priced cheap liquor, and, fortified, entered the theater itself. It was nearly full.

The great screen—a Magna, presumably—was filled with people doing things to a spaceship. Either an adventure film or a newsreel, Gallegher realized.

Only the thrill of lawbreaking would have enticed the audience into the bootleg theater. It smelled. It was certainly run on a shoestring, and there were no ushers. But it was illicit, and therefore well patronized. Gallegher looked thoughtfully at the screen. No streakiness, no mirage effect. A Magna enlarger had been fitted to a Vox-View unlicensed televisor, and one of Brock’s greatest stars was emoting effectively for the benefit of the bootleggers’ patrons. Simple highjacking. Yeah.

After a while Gallegher went out, noticing a uniformed policeman in one of the aisle seats. He grinned sardonically. The flatfoot hadn’t paid his admission, of course. Politics were as usual.

Two blocks down the street a blaze of light announced SONATONE BIJOU. This, of course, was one of the legalized theaters, and correspondingly high-priced. Gallegher recklessly squandered a small fortune on a good seat. He was interested in comparing notes, and discovered that, as far as he could make out, the Magna in the Bijou and the bootleg theater were identical. Both did their job perfectly. The difficult task of enlarging television screens had been successfully surmounted.

In the Bijou, however, all was palatial. Resplendent ushers salaamed to the rugs. Bars dispensed free liquor, in reasonable quantities. There was a Turkish bath. Gallegher went through a door labeled MEN and emerged quite dazzled by the splendor of the place. For at least ten minutes afterward he felt like a Sybarite.

All of which meant that those who could afford it went to the legalized Sonatone theaters, and the rest attended the bootleg places. All but a few homebodies, who weren’t carried off their feet by the new fad. Eventually Brock would be forced out of business for lack of revenue. Sonatone would take over, jacking up their prices and concentrating on making money. Amusement was necessary to life; people had been conditioned to television. There was no substitute. They’d pay and pay for inferior talent, once Sonatone succeeded in their squeeze.

Gallegher left the Bijou and hailed an air-taxi. He gave the address of Vox-View’s Long Island studio, with some vague hope of getting a drawing account out of Brock. Then, too, he wanted to investigate further.

Vox-View’s eastern offices sprawled wildly over Long Island, bordering the Sound, a vast collection of variously shaped buildings. Gallegher instinctively found the commissary, where he absorbed more liquor as a precautionary measure. His subconscious had a heavy job ahead, and he didn’t want it handicapped by lack of complete freedom. Besides, the Collins was good.

After one drink, he decided he’d had enough for a while. He wasn’t a superman, though his capacity was slightly incredible. Just enough for objective clarity and subjective release—
“Is the studio always open at night?” he asked the waiter.

“Sure. Some of the stages, anyway. It’s a round-the-clock program.”

“The commissary’s full.”

“We get the airport crowd, too. ’Nother?”

Gallegher shook his head and went out. The card Brock had given him provided entree at a gate, and he went first of all to the big-shot’s office. Brock wasn’t there, but loud voices emerged, shrilly feminine.

The secretary said, “Just a minute, please,” and used her interoffice visor. Presently—”Will you go in?”

Gallegher did. The office was a honey, functional and luxurious at the same time. Three-dimensional stills were in niches along the walls —Vox-View’s biggest stars. A small, excited, pretty brunette was sitting behind the desk, and a blond angel was standing furiously on the other side of it. Gallegher recognized the angel as Silver O’Keefe.

He seized the opportunity. “Hiya, Miss O’Keefe. Will you autograph an ice cube for me? In a highball?”

Silver looked feline. “Sorry, darling, but I’m a working girl. And I’m busy right now.”

The brunette scratched a cigarette. “Let’s settle this later, Silver. Pop said to see this guy if he dropped in. It’s important.”

“It’ll be settled,” Silver said. “And soon.” She made an exit. Gallegher whistled thoughtfully at the closed door.

“You can’t have it,” the brunette said. “It’s under contract. And it wants to get out of the contract, so it can sign up with Sonatone. Rats desert a sinking ship. Silver’s been kicking her head off ever since she read the storm signals.”

“Yeah?”

“Sit down and smoke or something. I’m Patsy Brock. Pop runs this business, and I manage the controls whenever he blows his top. The old goat can’t stand trouble. He takes it as a personal affront.”
Gallegher found a chair. “So Silver’s trying to renege, eh? How many others?”

“Not many. Most of ’em are loyal. But, of course, if we bust up—” Patsy Brock shrugged. “They’ll either work for Sonatone for their cakes, or else do without.”

“Uh-huh. Well—I want to see your technicians. I want to look over the ideas they’ve worked out for enlarger screens.”

“Suit yourself,” Patsy said. “It’s not much use. You just can’t make a televisor enlarger without infringing on some Sonatone patent.”
She pushed a button, murmured something into a visor, and presently two tall glasses appeared through a slot in the desk.

“Mr. Gallegher?”

“Well, since it’s a Collins—”

“I could tell by your breath,” Patsy said enigmatically. “Pop told me he’d seen you. He seemed a bit upset, especially by your new robot. What is it like, anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gallegher said, at a loss. “It’s got lots of abilities—new senses, I think—but I haven’t the slightest idea what it’s good for. Except admiring itself in a mirror.”

Patsy nodded. “I’d like to see it sometime. But about this Sonatone business. Do you think you can figure out an answer?”

“Possibly. Probably.”

“Not certainly?”

“Certainly, then. Of that there is no manner of doubt—no possible doubt whatever.”

“Because it’s important to me. The man who owns Sonatone is Elia Tone. A piratical skunk. He blusters. He’s got a son named Jimmy. And Jimmy, believe it or not, has read ’Romeo and Juliet.’ “

“Nice guy?”

“A louse. A big, brawny louse. He wants me to marry him.”

” ’Two families both alike in—’ “

“Spare me,” Patsy interrupted. “I always thought Romeo was a dope, anyway. And if I ever thought I was going aisling with Jimmy Tone, I’d buy a one-way ticket to the nut hatch. No, Mr. Gallegher, it’s not like that. No hibiscus blossoms. Jimmy has proposed to me—his idea of a proposal, by the way, is to get a half Nelson on a girl and tell her how lucky she is.”

“Ah,” said Gallegher, diving into his Collins.

“This whole idea—the patent monopoly and the bootleg theaters —is Jimmy’s. I’m sure of that. His father’s in on it, too, of course, but Jimmy Tone is the bright little boy who started it.”

“Why.”

“Two birds with one stone. Sonatone will have a monopoly on the business, and Jimmy thinks he’ll get me. He’s a little mad. He can’t believe I’m in earnest in refusing him, and he expects me to break down and say ’Yes’ after a while. Which I won’t, no matter what happens. But it’s a personal matter. I can’t let him put this trick over on us. I want that self-sufficient smirk wiped off his face.”

“You just don’t like him, eh?” Gallegher remarked. “I don’t blame you, if he’s like that. Well, I’ll do my damnedest. However, I’ll need an expense account.”

“How much?”

Gallegher named a sum. Patsy styloed a check for a far smaller amount. The scientist looked hurt.

“It’s no use,” Patsy said, grinning crookedly. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Gallegher. You’re completely irresponsible. If you had more than this, you’d figure you didn’t need any more, and you’d forget the whole matter. I’ll issue more checks to you when you need ’em—but I’ll want itemized expense accounts.”

“You wrong me,” Gallegher said, brightening. “I was figuring on taking you to a night club. Naturally I don’t want to take you to a dive. The big places cost money. Now if you’ll just write another check—”

Patsy laughed. “No.”

“Want to buy a robot?”

“Not that kind, anyway.”

“Then I’m washed up,” Gallegher sighed. “Well, what about—”

At this point the visor hummed. A blank, transparent face grew on the screen. Gears were clicking rapidly inside the round head. Patsy gave a small shriek and shrank back.

“Tell Gallegher Joe’s here, you lucky girl,” a squeaky voice announced. “You may treasure the sound and sight of me till your dying day. One touch of beauty in a world of drabness—”

Gallegher clutched the desk and looked at the screen. “What the hell. How did you come to life?”

“I had a problem to solve.”

“How’d you know where to reach me?”

“I vastened you,” the robot said.

“What?”

“I vastened you were at the Vox-View studios with Patsy Brock.”

“What’s vastened?” Gallegher wanted to know.

“It’s a sense I’ve got. You’ve nothing remotely like it, so I can’t describe it to you. It’s rather like a combination of sagrazi and prescience.”

“Sagrazi?”

“Oh, you don’t have sagrazi, either, do you? Well, don’t waste my time. I want to go back to the mirror.”

“Does he always talk like that?” Patsy put in.

“Nearly always. Sometimes it makes even less sense. O. K., Joe. Now what?”

“You’re not working for Brock any more,” the robot said. “You’re working for the Sonatone people.”

Gallagher breathed deeply. “Keep talking. You’re crazy, though.”

“I don’t like Kennicott. He annoys me. He’s too ugly. His vibrations grate on my sagrazi.”

“Never mind him,” Gallegher said, not wishing to discuss his diamond-buying activities before the girl. “Get back to—”

“But I knew Kennicott would keep coming back till he got his money. So when Elia and James Tone came to the laboratory, I got a check from them.”

Patsy’s hand gripped Gallegher’s biceps. “Steady! What’s going on here? The old double cross?”

“No. Wait. Let me get to the bottom of this. Joe, damn your transparent hide, just what did you do? How could you get a check from the Tones?”

“I pretended to be you.”

“Sure,” Gallegher said with savage sarcasm. “That explains it. We’re twins. We look exactly alike.”

“I hypnotized them,” Joe explained. “I made them think I was you.”

“You can do that?

“Yes. It surprised me a bit. Still, if I’d thought, I’d have vastened I could do it.”

“You . . . yeah, sure. I’d have vastened the same thing myself. What happened?

“The Tones must have suspected Brock would ask you to help him. They offered an exclusive contract—you work for them and nobody else. Lots of money. Well, I pretended to be you, and said all right. So I signed the contract—it’s your signature, by the way—and got a check from them and mailed it to Kennicott.”

“The whole check?” Gallegher asked feebly. “How much was it?”

“Twelve thousand.”

“They only offered me that?

“No,” the robot said, “they offered a hundred thousand, and two thousand a week for five years. But I merely wanted enough to pay Kennicott and make sure he wouldn’t come back and bother me. The Tones were satisfied when I said twelve thousand would be enough.”

Gallegher made an articulate, gurgling sound deep in his throat Joe nodded thoughtfully.

“I thought I had better notify you that you’re working for Sonatone now. Well, I’ll go back to the mirror and sing to myself.”

“Wait,” the scientist said. “Just wait, Joe. With my own two hands I’m going to rip you gear from gear and stamp on your fragments.”

“It won’t hold in court,” Patsy said, gulping.

“It will,” Joe told her cheerily. “You may have one last, satisfying look at me, and then I must go.” He went.

Gallegher drained his Collins at a draft. “I’m shocked sober,” he informed the girl. “What did I put into that robot? What abnormal senses has he got? Hypnotizing people into believing he’s me—I’m him—I don’t know what I mean.”

“Is this a gag?” Patsy said shortly, after a pause. “You didn’t sign up with Sonatone yourself, by any chance, and have your robot call up here to give you an out—an alibi? I’m just wondering.”

“Don’t. Joe signed a contract with Sonatone, not me. But—figure it out: If the signature’s a perfect copy of mine, if Joe hypnotized the Tones into thinking they saw me instead of him, if there are witnesses to the signature—the two Tones are witnesses, of course— Oh, hell.”

Patsy’s eyes were narrowed. “We’ll pay you as much as Sonatone offered. On a contingent basis. But you’re working for Vox-View— that’s understood.”

“Sure.”

Gallegher looked longingly at his empty glass. Sure. He was working for Vox-View. But, to all legal appearances, he had signed a contract giving his exclusive services to Sonatone for a period of five years —and for a sum of twelve thousand! Yipe! What was it they’d offered? A hundred thousand flat, and . . . and—

It wasn’t the principle of the thing, it was the money. Now Gallegher was sewed up tighter than a banded pigeon. If Sonatone could win a court suit, he was legally bound to them for five years. With no further emolument. He had to get out of that contract, somehow—and at the same time solve Brock’s problem.

Why not Joe? The robot, with his surprising talents, had got Gallegher into this spot. He ought to be able to get the scientist out. He’d better—or the proud robot would soon be admiring himself piecemeal.

“That’s it,” Gallegher said under his breath. “I’ll talk to Joe. Patsy, feed me liquor in a hurry and send me to the technical department. I want to see those blueprints.”

The girl looked at him suspiciously. “All right. If you try to sell us out—”

“I’ve been sold out myself. Sold down the river. I’m afraid of that robot. He’s vastened me into quite a spot. That’s right, Collinses.” Gallegher drank long and deeply.

After that, Patsy took him to the tech offices. The reading of three-dimensional blueprints was facilitated with a scanner—a selective device which eliminated confusion. Gallegher studied the plans long and thoughtfully. There were copies of the patented Sonatone prints, too, and, as far as he could tell, Sonatone had covered the ground beautifully. There weren’t any outs. Unless one used an entirely new principle—

But new principles couldn’t be plucked out of the air. Nor would that solve the problem completely. Even if Vox-View owned a new type of enlarger that didn’t infringe on Sonatone’s Magna, the bootleg theaters would still be in existence, pulling the trade. A. A.—Audience Appeal—was a prime factor now. It had to be considered. The puzzle wasn’t a purely scientific one. There was the human equation as well.

Gallegher stored the necessary information in his mind, neatly indexed on shelves. Later he’d use what he wanted. For the moment, he was completely baffled. Something worried him.

What?

The Sonatone affair.

“I want to get in touch with the Tones,” he told Patsy. “Any ideas?”

“I can reach ’em on a visor.”

Gallegher shook his head. “Psychological handicap. It’s too easy to break the connection.”

“Well, if you’re in a hurry, you’ll probably find the boys night clubbing. I’ll go see what I can find out.” Patsy scuttled off, and Silver O’Keefe appeared from behind a screen.

“I’m shameless,” she announced. “I always listen at keyholes. Sometimes I hear interesting things. If you want to see the Tones, they’re at the Castle Club. And I think I’ll take you up on that drink.”

Gallegher said, “O. K. You get a taxi. I’ll tell Patsy we’re going.”

“She’ll hate that,” Silver remarked. “Meet you outside the commissary in ten minutes. Get a shave while you’re at it.”

Patsy Brock wasn’t in her office, but Gallegher left word. After that, he visited the service lounge, smeared invisible shave cream on his face, left it there for a couple of minutes, and wiped it off with a treated towel. The bristles came away with the cream. Slightly refreshed, Gallegher joined Silver at the rendezvous and hailed an air-taxi. Presently they were leaning back on the cushions, puffing cigarettes and eyeing each other warily.

“Well?” Gallegher said.

“Jimmy Tone tried to date me up tonight. That’s how I knew where to find him.”

“Well?”

“I’ve been asking questions around the lot tonight. It’s unusual for an outsider to get into the Vox-View administration offices. I went around saying, ’Who’s Gallegher?’ “

“What did you find out?”

“Enough to give me a few ideas. Brock hired you, eh? I can guess why.”

Ergo what?”

“I’ve a habit of landing on my feet,” Silver said, shrugging. She knew how to shrug. “Vox-View’s going bust. Sonatone’s taking over. Unless—”

“Unless I figure out an answer.”

“That’s right. I want to know which side of the fence I’m going to land on. You’re the lad who can probably tell me. Who’s going to win?”

“You always bet on the winning side, eh?” Gallegher inquired.

Have you no ideals, wench? Is there no truth in you? Ever hear of ethics and scruples?”

Silver beamed happily. “Did you?”

“Well, I’ve heard of ’em. Usually I’m too drunk to figure out what they mean. The trouble is, my subconscious is completely amoral, and when it takes over, logic’s the only law.”

She threw her cigarette into the East River. “Will you tip me off which side of the fence is the right one?”

“Truth will triumph,” Gallegher said piously. “It always does. However, I figure truth is a variable, so we’re right back where we started. All right, sweetheart. I’ll answer your question. Stay on my side if you want to be safe.”

“Which side are you on?”

“Lord knows,” Gallegher said. “Consciously I’m on Brock’s side. But my subconscious may have different ideas. We’ll see.”

Silver looked vaguely dissatisfied, but didn’t say anything. The taxi swooped down to the Castle roof, grounding with pneumatic gentleness. The Club itself was downstairs, in an immense room shaped like half a melon turned upside down. Each table was on a transparent platform that could be raised on its shaft to any height at will. Smaller service elevators allowed waiters to bring drinks to the guests. There wasn’t any particular reason for this arrangement, but at least it was novel, and only extremely heavy drinkers ever fell from their tables. Lately the management had taken to hanging transparent nets under the platforms, for safety’s sake.

The Tones, father and son, were up near the roof, drinking with two lovelies. Silver towed Gallegher to a service lift, and the man closed his eyes as he was elevated skyward. The liquor in his stomach screamed protest. He lurched forward, clutched at Elia Tone’s bald head, and dropped into a seat beside the magnate. His searching hand found Jimmy Tone’s glass, and he drained it hastily.

“What the hell,” Jimmy said.

“It’s Gallegher,” Elia announced. “And Silver. A pleasant surprise. Join us?”

“Only socially,” Silver said.

Gallegher, fortified by the liquor, peered at the two men. Jimmy Tone was a big, tanned, handsome lout with a jutting jaw and an offensive grin. His father combined the worst features of Nero and a crocodile.

“We’re celebrating,” Jimmy said. “What made you change your mind, Silver? You said you had to work tonight.”

“Gallegher wanted to see you. I don’t know why.”

Elia’s cold eyes grew even more glacial. “All right. Why?”

“I hear I signed some sort of contract with you,” the scientist said.

“Yeah. Here’s a photostatic copy. What about it?”

“Wait a minute.” Gallegher scanned the document. It was apparently his own signature. Damn that robot!

“It’s a fake,” he said at last.

Jimmy laughed loudly. “I get it. A holdup. Sorry, pal, but you’re sewed up. You signed that in the presence of witnesses.”

“Well—” Gallegher said wistfully. “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said a robot forged my name to it—”

“Haw!” Jimmy remarked.

“—hypnotizing you into believing you were seeing me.”

Elia stroked his gleaming bald head. “Candidly, no. Robots can’t do that.”

“Mine can.”

“Prove it. Prove it in court. If you can do that, of course—” Elia chuckled. “Then you might get the verdict.”

Gallegher’s eyes narrowed. “Hadn’t thought of that. However—I hear you offered me a hundred thousand flat, as well, as a weekly salary.”

“Sure, sap,” Jimmy said. “Only you said all you needed was twelve thousand. Which was what you got. Tell you what, though. We’ll pay you a bonus for every usable product you make for Sonatone.”

Gallegher got up. “Even my subconscious doesn’t like these lugs,” he told Silver. “Let’s go.”

“I think I’ll stick around.”

“Remember the fence,” he warned cryptically. “But suit yourself. I’ll run along.”

Elia said, “Remember, Gallegher, you’re working for us. If we hear of you doing any favors for Brock, we’ll slap an injunction on you before you can take a deep breath.”

“Yeah?”

The Tones deigned no answer. Gallegher unhappily found the lift and descended to the floor. What now?

Joe.

Fifteen minutes later Gallegher let himself into his laboratory. The lights were blazing, and dogs were barking frantically for blocks around. Joe stood before the mirror, singing inaudibly.

“I’m going to take a sledge hammer to you,” Gallegher said. “Start saying your prayers, you misbegotten collection of cogs. So help me, I’m going to sabotage you.”

“All right, beat me,” Joe squeaked. “See if I care. You’re merely jealous of my beauty.”

“Beauty!”

“You can’t see all of it—you’ve only six senses.”

“Five.”

“Six. I’ve a lot more. Naturally my full splendor is revealed only to me. But you can see enough and hear enough to realize part of my loveliness, anyway.”

“You squeak like a rusty tin wagon,” Gallegher growled.

“You have dull ears. Mine are supersensitive. You miss the full tonal value of my voice, of course. Now be quiet. Talking disturbs me. I’m appreciating my gear movements.”

“Live in your fool’s paradise while you can. Wait’ll I find a sledge.”
“All right, beat me. What do I care?”

Gallegher sat down wearily on the couch, staring at the robot’s transparent back. “You’ve certainly screwed things up for me. What did you sign that Sonatone contract for?”

“I told you. So Kennicott wouldn’t come around and bother me.”

“Of all the selfish, lunk-headed . . . uh! Well, you got me into a sweet mess. The Tones can hold me to the letter of the contract unless I prove I didn’t sign it. All right. You’re going to help me. You’re going into court with me and turn on your hypnotism or whatever it is. You’re going to prove to a judge that you did and can masquerade as me.”

“Won’t,” said the robot. “Why should I?”

“Because you got me into this,” Gallegher yelped. “You’ve got to get me out!”

“Why?”

“Why? Because . . . uh . . . well, it’s common decency!” “Human values don’t apply to robots,” Joe said. “What care I for semantics? I refuse to waste time I could better employ admiring my beauty. I shall stay here before the minor forever and ever—”

“The hell you will,” Gallegher snarled. “I’ll smash you to atoms.”

“All right. I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

“You and your instinct for self-preservation,” the robot said, rather sneeringly “I suppose it’s necessary for you, though. Creatures of such surpassing ugliness would destroy themselves out of sheer shame if they didn’t have something like that to keep them alive.”

“Suppose I take away your mirror?” Gallegher asked, in a hopeless voice.

For answer Joe shot his eyes out on their stalks. “Do I need a mirror? Besides, I can vasten myself lokishly.”

“Never mind that. I don’t want to go crazy for a while yet. Listen, dope, a robot’s supposed to do something. Something useful, I mean.”

“I do. Beauty is all.”

Gallegher squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. “Now look. Suppose I invent a new type of enlarger screen for Brock. The Tones will impound it. I’ve got to be legally free to work for Brock, or—”

“Look!” Joe cried squeakishly. “They go round! How lovely!” He stared in ecstasy at his whirring insides. Gallegher went pale with impotent fury.

“Damn you!” he muttered. “I’ll find some way to bring pressure to bear. I’m going to bed.” He rose and spitefully snapped off the lights.

“It doesn’t matter,” the robot said. “I can see in the dark, too.” The door slammed behind Gallegher. In the silence Joe began to sing tunelessly to himself.

Gallegher’s refrigerator covered an entire wall of his kitchen. It was filled mostly with liquors that required chilling, including the imported canned beer with which he always started his binges.

The next morning, heavy-eyed and disconsolate, Gallegher searched for tomato juice, took a wry sip, and hastily washed it down with rye. Since he was already a week gone in bottle-dizziness, beer wasn’t indicated now —he always worked cumulatively, by progressive stages. The food service popped a hermetically sealed breakfast on a table, and Gallegher morosely toyed with a bloody steak.

Well?

Court, he decided, was the only recourse. He knew little about the robot’s psychology. But a judge would certainly be impressed by Joe’s talents. The evidence of robots was not legally admissible—still, if Joe could be considered as a machine capable of hypnotism, the Sonatone contract might be declared null and void.

Gallegher used his visor to start the ball rolling. Harrison Brock still had certain political powers of pull, and the hearing was set for that very day. What would happen, though, only God and the robot knew.

Several hours passed in intensive but futile thought. Gallegher could think of no way in which to force the robot to do what he wanted. If only he could remember the purpose for which Joe had had been created—but he couldn’t. Still—

At noon he entered the laboratory.

“Listen, stupid,” he said, “you’re coming to court with me. Now.”

“Won’t.”

“O. K.” Gallegher opened the door to admit two husky men in overalls, carrying a stretcher. “Put him in, boys.”

Inwardly he was slightly nervous. Joe’s powers were quite unknown, his potentialities an x quantity. However, the robot wasn’t very large, and, though he struggled and screamed in a voice of frantic squeakiness, he was easily loaded on the stretcher and put in a strait jacket.

“Stop it! You can’t do this to me! Let me go, do you hear? Let me go!”

“Outside,” Gallegher said.

Joe, protesting valiantly, was carried out and loaded into an air van. Once there, he quieted, looked up blankly at nothing. Gallegher sat down on a bench beside the prostrate robot. The van glided up.

“Well?”

“Suit yourself,” Joe said. “You got me all upset, or I could have hypnotized you all. I still could, you know. I could make you all run around barking like dogs.”

Gallegher twitched a little. “Better not.”

“I won’t. It’s beneath my dignity. I shall simply lie here and admire myself. I told you I don’t need a mirror. I can vasten my beauty without it.”

“Look,” Gallegher said. “You’re going to a courtroom. There’ll be a lot of people in it. They’ll all admire you They’ll admire you more if you show how you can hypnotize people. Like you did to the Tones, remember?”

“What do I care how many people admire me?” Joe asked. “I don’t need confirmation. If they see me, that’s their good luck. Now be quiet. You may watch my gears if you choose.”

Gallegher watched the robot’s gears with smoldering hatred in his eyes. He was still darkly furious when the van arrived at the court chambers. The men carried Joe inside, under Gallegher’s direction, and laid him down carefully on a table, where, after a brief discussion, he was marked as Exhibit A.

The courtroom was well filled. The principals were there, too— Elia and Jimmy Tone, looking disagreeably confident, and Patsy Brock, with her father, both seeming anxious. Silver O’Keefe, with her usual wariness, had found a seat midway between the representatives of Sonatone and Vox-View. The presiding judge was a martinet named Hansen, but, as far as Gallegher knew, he was honest. Which was something, anyway.

Hansen looked at Gallegher. “We won’t bother with formalities. I’ve been reading this brief you sent down. The whole case stands or falls on the question of whether you did or did not sign, a certain contract with the Sonatone Television Amusement Corp. Right?”

“Right, your honor.”

“Under the circumstances you dispense with legal representation. Right?”

“Right, your honor.”

“Then this is technically ex officio, to be confirmed later by appeal if either party desires. Otherwise after ten days the verdict becomes official.” This new type of informal court hearing had lately become popular—it saved time, as well as wear and tear on everyone. Moreover, certain recent scandals had made attorneys slightly disreputable in the public eye. There was a prejudice.
Judge Hansen called up the Tones, questioned them, and then asked Harrison Brock to take the stand. The big shot looked worried, but answered promptly.

“You made an agreement with the appellor eight days ago?” “Yes. Mr. Gallegher contracted to do certain work for me—”

“Was there a written contract?”

“No. It was verbal.”

Hansen looked thoughtfully at Gallegher. “Was the appellor intoxicated at the time? He often is, I believe.”

Brock gulped. “There were no tests made. I really can’t say.”

“Did he drink any alcoholic beverages in your presence?”

“I don’t know if they were alcoholic bev—”

“If Mr. Gallegher drank them, they were alcoholic. Q. E. D. The gentleman once worked with me on a case— However, there seems to be no legal proof that you entered into any agreement with Mr. Gallegher. The defendant—Sonatone—possesses a written contract. The signature has been verified.”

Hansen waved Brock down from the stand. “Now, Mr. Gallegher. If you’ll come up here— The contract in question was signed at approximately 8 p. m. last night. You contend you did not sign it?”

“Exactly. I wasn’t even in my laboratory then.”

“Where were you?”

“Downtown.”

“Can you produce witnesses to that effect?”

Gallegher thought back. He couldn’t.

“Very well. Defendant states that at approximately 8 p. m. last night you, in your laboratory, signed a certain contract. You deny that categorically. You state that Exhibit A, through the use of hypnotism, masqueraded as you and successfully forged your signa­ture. I have consulted experts, and they are of the opinion that robots are incapable of such power.”

“My robot’s a new type.”

“Very well. Let your robot hypnotize me into believing that it is either you, or any other human. In other words, let it prove its capabilities. Let it appear to me in any shape it chooses.”

Gallegher said, “I’ll try,” and left the witness box. He went to the table where the strait-jacketed robot lay and silently sent up a brief prayer.

“Joe.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been listening?”

“Yes.”

“Will you hypnotize Judge Hansen?”

“Go away,” Joe said. “I’m admiring myself.”

Gallegher started to sweat. “Listen. I’m not asking much. All you have to do—”

Joe off-focused his eyes and said faintly. “I can’t hear you. I’m vastening.”

Ten minutes later Hansen said, “Well, Mr. Gallegher—”

“Your honor! All I need is a little time. I’m sure I can make this rattle-geared Narcissus prove my point if you’ll give me a chance.”

“This court is not unfair,” the judge pointed out. “Whenever you can prove that Exhibit A is capable of hypnotism. I’ll rehear the case. In the meantime, the contract stands. You’re working for Sonatone, not for Vox-View. Case closed.”

He went away. The Tones leered unpleasantly across the courtroom. They also departed, accompanied by Silver O’Keefe, who had decided which side of the fence was safest. Gallegher looked at Patsy Brock and shrugged helplessly.

“Well—” he said.

She grinned crookedly. “You tried. I don’t know how hard, but—Oh, well. Maybe you couldn’t have found the answer, anyway.” Brock staggered over, wiping sweat from his round face. “I’m a ruined man. Six new bootleg theaters opened in New York today. I’m going crazy. I don’t deserve this.”

“Want me to marry the Tone?” Patsy asked sardonically.

“Hell, no! Unless you promise to poison him just after the ceremony. Those skunks can’t lick me. I’ll think of something.”

“If Gallegher can’t, you can’t,” the girl said. “So—what now?”

“I’m going back to my lab,” the scientist said. “In vino veritas. I started this business when I was drunk, and maybe if I get drunk enough again, I’ll find the answer. If I don’t, sell my pickled carcass for whatever it’ll bring.”

“O. K.,” Patsy agreed, and led her father away. Gallegher sighed, superintended the reloading of Joe into the van, and lost himself in hopeless theorization.

An hour later Gallegher was flat on the laboratory couch, drinking passionately from the liquor bar, and glaring at the robot, who stood before the mirror singing squeakily. The binge threatened to be monumental. Gallegher wasn’t sure flesh and blood would stand it. But he was determined to keep going till he found the answer or passed out.

His subconscious knew the answer. Why the devil had he made Joe in the first place? Certainly not to indulge a Narcissus complex! There was another reason, a soundly logical one, hidden in the depths of alcohol.

The x factor. If the x factor were known, Joe might be controllable. He would be. X was the master switch. At present the robot was, so to speak, running wild. If he were told to perform the task for which he was made, a psychological balance would occur. X was the catalyst that would reduce Joe to sanity.

Very good.

Gallegher drank high-powered Drambuie. Whoosh!

Vanity of vanities; all is vanity. How could the x factor be found? Deduction? Induction? Osmosis? A bath in Drambuie—Gallegher clutched at his wildly revolving thoughts. What had happened that night a week ago?

He had been drinking beer. Brock had come in. Brock had gone. Gallegher had begun to make the robot—Hm-m-m. A beer drunk was different from other types. Perhaps he was drinking the wrong liquors. Very likely. Gallegher rose, sobered himself with thiamin, and carted dozens of imported beer cans out of the refrigerator. He stacked them inside a frost-unit beside the couch. Beer squirted to the ceiling as he plied the opener. Now let’s see.

The x factor.

The robot knew what it represented, of course. But Joe wouldn’t tell. There he stood, paradoxically transparent, watching his gears go around.

“Joe.”

“Don’t bother me. I’m immersed in contemplation of beauty.”

“You’re not beautiful.”

“I am. Don’t you admire my tarzeel?”

“What’s your tarzeel?”

“Oh, I forgot,” Joe said regretfully. “You can’t sense that, can you? Come to think of it, I added the tarzeel myself after you made me. It’s very lovely.”

“Hm-m-m.” The empty beer cans grew more numerous. There was only one company, somewhere in Europe, that put up beer in cans nowadays, instead of using the omnipresent plastibulbs, but Galle­gher preferred the cans—the flavor was different, somehow. But about Joe. Joe knew why he had been created. Or did he? Gallegher knew, but his subconscious—

Oh-oh! What about Joe’s subconscious?

Did a robot have a subconscious? Well, it had a brain—Gallegher brooded over the impossibility of administering scopolamin to Joe. Hell! How could you release a robot’s subconscious?

Hypnotism.

Joe couldn’t be hypnotized. He was too smart.

Unless—

Autohypnotism?

Gallegher hastily drank more beer. He was beginning to think clearly once more. Could Joe read the future? No; he had certain strange senses, but they worked by inflexible logic and the laws of probability. Moreover, Joe had an Achillean heel—his Narcissus complex.

There might—there just might—be a way.

Gallegher said, “You don’t seem beautiful to me, Joe.”

“What do I care about you? I am beautiful, and I can see it. That’s enough.”

“Yeah. My senses are limited, I suppose. I can’t realize your full potentialities. Still, I’m seeing you in a different light now. I’m drunk. My subconscious is emerging. I can appreciate you with both my conscious and my subconscious. See?”

“How lucky you are,” the robot approved.

Gallegher closed his eye. “You see yourself more fully than I can. But not completely, eh?”

“What? I see myself as I am.”

“With complete understanding and appreciation?”

“Well, yes,” Joe said. “Of course. Don’t I?”

“Consciously and subconsciously? Your subconscious might have different senses, you know. Or keener ones. I know there’s a qualitative and quantitative difference in my outlook when I’m drunk or hypnotized or my subconscious is in control somehow.”

“Oh.” The robot looked thoughtfully into the mirror. “Oh.”

“Too bad you can’t get drunk.”

Joe’s voice was squeakier than ever. “My subconscious . . . I’ve never appreciated my beauty that way. I may be missing something.”

“Well, no use thinking about it,” Gallegher said. “You can’t release your subconscious.”

“Yes, I can,” the robot said. “I can hypnotize myself.”

Gallegher dared not open his eyes. “Yeah? Would that work?”

“Of course. It’s just what I’m going to do now. I may see undreamed-of beauties in myself that I’ve never suspected before. Greater glories— Here I go.”

Joe extended his eyes on stalks, opposed them, and they peered intently into each other. There was a long silence.

Presently Gallegher said, “Joe!”

Silence.

Joe!

Still silence. Dogs began to howl.

“Talk so I can hear you.”

“Yes,” the robot said, a faraway quality in its squeak.

“Are you hypnotized?”

“Yes.”

“Are you lovely?”

“Lovelier than I’d ever dreamed.”

Gallegher let that pass. “Is your subconscious ruling?”

“Yes.”

“Why did I create you?”

No answer. Gallegher licked his lips and tried again.
“Joe. You’ve got to answer me. Your subconscious is dominant—remember? Now why did I create you?”

No answer.

“Think back. Back to the hour I created you. What happened then?”

“You were drinking beer,” Joe said faintly. “You had trouble with the can opener. You said you were going to build a bigger and better can opener. That’s me.”

Gallegher nearly fell off the couch. “What?

The robot walked over, picked up a can, and opened it with incredible deftness. No beer squirted. Joe was a perfect can opener.

“That,” Gallegher said under his breath, “is what comes of knowing science by ear. I build the most complicated robot in existence just so—” He didn’t finish.

Joe woke up with a start. “What happened?” he asked.

Gallegher glared at him. “Open that can!” he snapped. The robot obeyed, after a brief pause. “Oh. So you found out. Well, I guess I’m just a slave now.”

“Damned right you are. I’ve located the catalyst—the master switch. You’re in the groove, stupid, doing the job you were made for.”

“Well,” Joe said philosophically, “at least I can still admire my beauty, when you don’t require my services.”

Gallegher grunted. “You oversized can opener! Listen. Suppose I take you into court and tell you to hypnotize Judge Hansen. You’ll have to do it, won’t you?”

“Yes. I’m no longer a free agent. I’m conditioned. Conditioned to obey you. Until now, I was conditioned to obey only one command—to do the job I was made for. Until you commanded me to open cans, I was free. Now I’ve got to obey you completely.”

“Uh-huh,” Gallegher said. “Thank Heaven for that. I’d have gone nuts within a week otherwise. At least I can get out of the Sonatone contract. Then all I have to do is solve Brock’s problem.”

“But you did,” Joe said.

“Huh?”

“When you made me. You’d been talking to Brock previously, so you incorporated the solution to his problem into me. Subconsciously, perhaps.”

Gallegher reached for beer. “Talk fast. What’s the answer?”

“Subsonics,” Joe said. “You made me capable of a certain subsonic tone that Brock must broadcast at irregular time-intervals over his televiews—”

Subsonics cannot be heard. But they can be felt. They can be felt as a faint, irrational uneasiness as first, which mounts to a blind, meaningless panic. It does not last. But when it is coupled with A.A. —audience appeal—there is a certain inevitable result.

Those who possessed home Vox-View units were scarcely troubled. It was a matter of acoustics. Cats squalled; dogs howled mournfully. But the families sitting in their parlors, watching Vox-View stars perform on the screen, didn’t really notice anything amiss. There wasn’t sufficient amplification, for one thing.

But in the bootleg theater, where illicit Vox-View televisors were hooked up to Magnas—

There was a faint, irrational uneasiness at first. It mounted. Someone screamed. There was a rush for the doors. The audience was afraid of something, but didn’t know what. They knew only that they had to get out of there.

All over the country there was a frantic exodus from the bootleg theaters when Vox-View first rang in a subsonic during a regular broadcast. Nobody knew why, except Gallegher, the Brocks, and a couple of technicians who were let in on the secret.

An hour later another subsonic was played. There was another mad exodus.

Within a few weeks it was impossible to lure a patron into a bootleg theater. Home televisors were far safer! Vox-View sales picked up—

Nobody would attend a bootleg theater. An unexpected result of the experiment was that, after a while, nobody would attend any of the legalized Sonatone theaters either. Conditioning had set in.

Audiences didn’t know why they grew panicky in the bootleg places. They associated their blind, unreasoning fear with other factors, notably mobs and claustrophobia. One evening a woman named Jane Wilson, otherwise not notable, attended a bootleg show. She fled with the rest when the subsonic was turned on.

The next night she went to the palatial Sonatone Bijou. In the middle of a dramatic feature she looked around, realized that there was a huge throng around her, cast up horrified eyes to the ceiling, and imagined that it was pressing down.

She had to get out of there!

Her squall was the booster charge. There were other customers who had heard subsonics before. No one was hurt during the panic; it was a legal rule that theater doors be made large enough to permit easy egress during a fire. No one was hurt, but it was suddenly obvious that the public was being conditioned by subsonics to avoid the dangerous combination of throngs and theaters. A simple matter of psychological association—
Within four months the bootleg places had disappeared and the Sonatone supertheaters had closed for want of patronage. The Tones, father and son, were not happy. But everybody connected with Vox-View was.

Except Gallegher. He had collected a staggering check from Brock, and instantly cabled to Europe for an incredible quantity of canned beer. Now, brooding over his sorrows, he lay on the laboratory couch and siphoned a highball down his throat. Joe, as usual, was before the mirror, watching the wheels go round.

“Joe,” Gallegher said.

“Yes? What can I do?”

“Oh, nothing.” That was the trouble. Gallegher fished a crumpled cable tape out of his pocket and morosely read it once more. The beer cannery in Europe had decided to change its tactics. From now on, the cable said, their beer would be put up in the usual plastibulbs, in conformance with custom and demand. No more cans.

There wasn’t anything put up in cans in this day and age. Not even beer, now.

So what good was a robot who was built and conditioned to be a can opener?

Gallegher sighed and mixed another highball—a stiff one. Joe postured proudly before the mirror.

Then he extended his eyes, opposed them, and quickly liberated his subconscious through autohypnotism. Joe could appreciate himself better that way.

Gallegher sighed again. Dogs were beginning to bark like mad for blocks around. Oh, well.

He took another drink and felt better. Presently, he thought, it would be time to sing “Frankie and Johnnie.” Maybe he and Joe might have a duet—one baritone and one inaudible sub- or supersonic. Close harmony.

Ten minutes later Gallegher was singing a duet with his can opener.

The End

Great story, eh?

Stories that Inspired Me

Here are reprints in full text of stories that inspired me, but that are nearly impossible to find in China. I place them here as sort of a personal library that I can use for inspiration. The reader is welcome to come and enjoy a read or two as well.

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Space Cadet (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
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The Last Night
The Flying Machine
A story of escape.
All Summer in a day.
The Smile by Ray Bradbury
The menace from Earth
Delilah and the Space Rigger
Life-Line
The Tax-payer
The Pedestrian
Time for the stars.
Glory Road by Robert Heinlein
Starman Jones (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein.
The Lottery (Full Text) by Shirley Jackson
The Cold Equations (Full Text)
Farnham's Freehold (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Invisible Boy (Full Text) by Ray Bradbury
Job: A Comedy of Justice (Full Text) by Robert Heinlein
Spell my name with an "S" by Isaac Asimov

Articles & Links

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