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                                 WE OWN THE NIGHT                                    Written by                                    JamesGray                                        FADE IN:                    A PAIR OF SMOKESTACKS AGAINST AN ORANGE AUTUMN SUN SKY...          THE CAMERA ZOOMS OUTto REVEAL: A CEMETERY in the          foreground. TOMBSTONES blend into a NEVER-ENDING SEA OF          MIDDLE-CLASS ROW HOUSES in the distance, and nothing seems          to separate the two. A NEWLY DUGGRAVE is in the LOWER          LEFT-HAND CORNER of our FRAME.                    MILITARY DRUMS. HUNDREDS of POLICEMEN, in their DRESS          BLUES, ENTER from FRAME RIGHT. A FEW COPS CARRY aCOFFIN.                    SUPERIMPOSE ON THE SCREEN'S LEFT SIDE: THE FOLLOWING WORDS          FADE IN--PARAGRAPH BY PARAGRAPH:                    New York, NewYork.   1988.                    A new breed of narcotics has swept the great city, bringing          with it a ferocious crime wave more terrifying than any in          recent memory.                    The oldcriminal order is gone. In its place, new ethnic          groups rise up to seize control without respect for          traditional rules of engagement.                    Outmanned and outgunned, demoralized bycutbacks and          scandal, the Police find themselves burying one of their          own at the rate of twice a month...                    The WORDS TURN BLOOD RED, then DISAPPEAR. The POLICELOWER          THE COFFIN when they arrive at the SITE. As we begin to          ZOOM INTO a CLOSE ANGLE ON THEM, we HEAR MUSIC. A THUMPING          POP BEAT. THE CLASH'S "ROCK THECASBAH"...                                                       SMASH CUT TO:                    CLOSE ON: BOBBY GREEN, thirty. He is passionate and vital          and handsome, a real physical presence. HisCLOTHES are          stylish, expensive. A sly SMILE. He steps forward, into:                    INT. STOREROOM                    The camera MOVES with him to SEE: ROSARIO DIAZ,twenties,          dark-skinned, impossibly gorgeous. Leaning up against the          wall, biting her lower lip, eyeing Bobby with true desire.                                              BOBBYGREEN                     ...you're so fuckin' beautiful, you                     know that...?                                                                               (CONTINUED)                                                                                2.          CONTINUED:                              She beams. They kiss, PASSIONATELY. SUPERIMPOSE:          "BROOKLYN". They really GO AT IT.They are ferocious; as          they DEVOUR each other:                                                ROSARIO DIAZ                       I love you, baby...                    Then we HEAR a fist BANGING ON ADOOR, a MUFFLED VOICE:                                                 MUFFLED VOICE                       Bobby!   You in there?                    No ANSWER--they're too busy making out. Then,MORE          BANGING. They both START LAUGHING. The voice continues:                                                MUFFLED VOICE (CONT'D)                       Bobby! [If] you two couldjust                       keep your hands off each other for                       a second--I, I think we got a                       situation brewin' out front!                                                ROSARIODIAZ                       It's Jumbo... We gotta go anyway...                                                 BOBBY GREEN                              (beat; to the door)                       I'll be out in a second,Louis!                    She grabs him; he moves back in, starts MAULING her again.          She SLIDES DOWN his body, perhaps to performfellatio...                                                                   CUT TO:                    INT. EL CARIBE NIGHTCLUB - MAIN ROOM                    A huge, bustling, vibrantnightclub, very `80's. Decadent,          pure New York. BOBBY emerges from the back room area,          straightening out his outfit. ROSARIO is behind him,          fixing herself and walking toward the front of theclub.          Bobby enters the PULSING, VITAL HEART of the place. As he          appears, everyone approaches, happily shouting out his          name. He is having a blast.                    Bobby is the master ofthis domain. An `80's version of          Tony Manero from SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER, but without kitsch.          He is genuine cool. MUSIC: BLONDIE'S "HEART OF GLASS."          Bobby waves hello to people, greets them("Hey, baby!"), a          pretty girl kisses him (the women love him). Moves with a          swagger, a DANCE. As he sways, he re-buttons his shirt,          claps his hands. He is the CLUB MANAGER, and HELOVES          every minute of it. He's GIDDY, ALIVE, a PERMANENT GRIN.          WE WANT HIS LIFE. SENSUOUS, SEDUCTIVE, INCREDIBLE FUN.                                                                         (CONTINUED)                                                                            3.          CONTINUED:                              A MAN waves to BOBBY. Bobby SEES: seated at atable,          surrounded by his gang: VADIM NEZHINSKI. Thirty-five, acne-          scarred, huge black pompadour, big gut. One of his men,          PAVEL LUBYARSKY, is next to him. Bobby nods back tothem.                    NEAR THE COAT CHECK                    Rosario meets up with several of her girlfriends, and we          SEE an OPERATION at work: people come get theircoats,          slide the coat check girls a HUNDRED BUCKS, and with their          coats the patrons get JUNK put in their jacket pockets.          Rosario looks to one of her girls--ALINA, a young Russian          with toomuch makeup--and counts the cash. Pockets some of          it. From Rosario's BEHAVIOR, we SEE she's INVOLVED in the          DRUG TRADE.                    INT. THE FRONT OF THEESTABLISHMENT - LOBBY                    A HUGE FIGHT that's breaking out. Violent. Club patrons          and SECURITY GUYS are in the melee. Girls SCREAM. ROSARIO          moves past all this, to thefront door. LOUIS FALSETTI,          forty, backs off from the multiple struggles all around          him. Louis is wearing a jacket that says "SECURITY" on it.          He is the jocular type, very overweight, redfaced.Bobby          arrives at the fight scene. With cheery braggadocio:                                                BOBBY GREEN                       What the fuck's goin' on in here?                    Bobby movesRIGHT IN. Grabs a struggling and drunk PATRON,          puts him in a headlock. He gives the Patron a SHOT TO THE          TEMPLE, just to keep him docile. Lou, Bobby's best friend,          watches the imbroglio with anamused and cowardly          detachment, CHORTLING with every punch and scream. He          balances a drink in his hand with marvelous care, avoiding          spillage. But the BATTLE GETS CLOSER AND CLOSER.Seeing          his friend Bobby, who's hardly got everything in control:                                                LOUIS FALSETTI                       Okay, Bobkes! Looks like you got                       everythingunder control here--so                       uh, so I'm gonna go outside, take                       my break!                                                BOBBY GREEN                       Yeah--just keep that wide loadof                       yours outta trouble, arright?                                                LOUIS FALSETTI                       Yes, your fuckin' majesty!                    The Patron is acting up again, tryingto free himself from          Bobby's grip. Bobby looks down at him. With humor:                                                                     (CONTINUED)                                                                               4.          CONTINUED:                                                          BOBBY GREEN                       What're you doing?!? You gotta                       behave yourselfhere!                    Gives the guy a shot in the head. Meanwhile: LOUIS          saunters past the melee, jumping gracefully over a fallen          drunk. He BOWS in triumph when others applaud hisleap.          Everyone laughs as he goes out the door. Bouncer FREDDIE          helps clean up the mess. A GIRL SCREAMS as a GUY is          flipped on his back by bouncers. A PATRON with BLOOD ON          HIS FACE,acting like an eight year-old, to Bobby (who          hurls his guy out of frame):                                                BLOODIED PATRON                       C'mon, Mr. Green! I didn'tdo                       nothing!                                                 BOBBY GREEN                       Well now you're gonna do nothing                       someplace else!                              (louder, toall                               fighters; pointing:)                       Now listen--one of these days I'm                       gonna run this whole block, and I                       see any you in here again--any you--                       I'llbust your fuckin' hole!                              (to Freddie)                       Throw `em out on their ass. I                       gotta go upstairs, drop off my keys                       with the old man.                    INT.STAIRWELL                    Wood-panelled walls. Bobby walks upstairs, fixing his hair.                    INT. MARAT BUZHAYEV'S APARTMENT - FOYER/LIVINGROOM                    An ornate, gaudy place. The walls are covered by mirrors          with that cheesy brown marble pattern print all over them.          Plush couches, clutter. Bobby walksin.                    We HEAR RADIO MUSIC up here, nothing like the stuff played          downstairs. A RUSSIAN CROONER. In an EASY CHAIR sits          MARAT BUZHAYEV (pronounced BOO-SHY'-EV). He isold,          kindly, weakened by age; sits next to his babushka wife,          KALINA. Buzhayev watches a Russian musical program with          the sound off, listening to his small transistorradio.                                                 MARAT BUZHAYEV                       Bobby!   Come here!                                                BOBBY GREEN                       Mr. Buzhayev, howare you!                                                                        (CONTINUED)                                                                              5.          CONTINUED:                              Bobby leans over, hugs the seated old man. The two EMBRACE          WARMLY--they are close. Before separating, Buzhayev          touches his face. KALINA yells happily in RUSSIAN,grabs          BOBBY, embraces him too. She couldn't be more motherly,          amd Bobby BEAMS at the treatment.                                                 KALINA BUZHAYEV


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Crystal Age, by W. H. HudsonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under theterms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: A Crystal AgeAuthor: W. H. HudsonPosting Date: March 24, 2014 [EBook #7401]Release Date: February, 2005FirstPosted: April 24, 2003Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CRYSTAL AGE ***Produced by Eric Eldred, David Garcia and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team.A CRYSTAL AGEBY W.H. HUDSONPREFACE_Romances of the future, however fantastic they may be, have for mostof us a perennial if mild interest, since they are born of a very commonfeeling--a sense of dissatisfaction with the existingorder of things,combined with a vague faith in or hope of a better one to come. Thepicture put before us is false; we knew it would be false before lookingat it, since we cannot imagine what is unknown any more thanwe canbuild without materials. Our mental atmosphere surrounds and shuts us inlike our own skins; no one can boast that he has broken out of thatprison. The vast, unbounded prospect lies before us, but, as thepoetmournfully adds, "clouds and darkness rest upon it." Nevertheless wecannot suppress all curiosity, or help asking one another, What is yourdream--your ideal? What is your News from Nowhere, or, rather, whatisthe result of the little shake your hand has given to the old pasteboardtoy with a dozen bits of colored glass for contents? And, most importantof all, can you present it in a narrative or romance which will enableme topass an idle hour not disagreeably? How, for instance, does itcompare in this respect with other prophetic books on the shelf?__I am not referring to living authors; least of all to that flamingo ofletters who for the lastdecade or so has been a wonder to our islandbirds. For what could I say of him that is not known to every one--thathe is the tallest of fowls, land or water, of a most singular shape, andhas black-tipped crimson wingsfolded under his delicate rose-coloredplumage? These other books referred to, written, let us say, from thirtyor forty years to a century or two ago, amuse us in a way their poordead authors never intended. Mostamusing are the dead ones who takethemselves seriously, whose books are pulpits quaintly carved anddecorated with precious stones and silken canopies in which they standand preach to or at theircontemporaries.__In like manner, in going through this book of mine after so many years Iam amused at the way it is colored by the little cults and crazes, andmodes of thought of the 'eighties of the last century. Theywere soimportant then, and now, if remembered at all, they appear so trivial!It pleases me to be diverted in this way at "A Crystal Age"--to find, infact, that I have not stood still while the world has been moving.__Thiscriticism refers to the case, the habit, of the book rather thanto its spirit, since when we write we do, as the red man thought, impartsomething of our souls to the paper, and it is probable that if I wereto write a newdream of the future it would, though in some respectsvery different from this, still be a dream and picture of the human racein its forest period.__Alas that in this case the wish cannot induce belief! For now Irememberanother thing which Nature said--that earthly excellence can come in noway but one, and the ending of passion and strife is the beginning ofdecay. It is indeed a hard saying, and the hardest lesson we canlearnof her without losing love and bidding good-by forever to hope._W. H. H.A CRYSTAL AGEChapter 1I do not quite know how it happened, my recollection of the whole matterebbing in a somewhat clouded condition.I fancy I had gone somewhere ona botanizing expedition, but whether at home or abroad I don't know. Atall events, I remember that I had taken up the study of plants with agood deal of enthusiasm, and that whilehunting for some variety in themountains I sat down to rest on the edge of a ravine. Perhaps it was onthe ledge of an overhanging rock; anyhow, if I remember rightly, theground gave way all about me, precipitatingme below. The fall was avery considerable one--probably thirty or forty feet, or more, and I wasrendered unconscious. How long I lay there under the heap of earth andstones carried down in my fall it is impossible tosay: perhaps a longtime; but at last I came to myself and struggled up from the_debris_, like a mole coming to the surface of the earth to feelthe genial sunshine on his dim eyeballs. I found myself standing(oddlyenough, on all fours) in an immense pit created by the overthrow of agigantic dead tree with a girth of about thirty or forty feet. The treeitself had rolled down to the bottom of the ravine; but the pit in whichit hadleft the huge stumps of severed roots was, I found, situated in agentle slope at the top of the bank! How, then, I could have fallenseemingly so far from no height at all, puzzled me greatly: it looked asif the solid earthhad been indulging in some curious transformationpranks during those moments or minutes of insensibility. Anothersingular circumstance was that I had a great mass of small fibrousrootlets tightly woven about mywhole person, so that I was like acolossal basket-worm in its case, or a big man-shaped bottle coveredwith wicker-work. It appeared as if the roots had _grown_ round me!Luckily they were quite sapless and brittle, andwithout bothering mybrains too much about the matter, I set to work to rid myself of them.After stripping the woody covering off, I found that my tourist suit ofrough Scotch homespun had not suffered much harm,although the clothexuded a damp, moldy smell; also that my thick-soled climbing boots hadassumed a cracked rusty appearance as if I had been engaged in somebrick-field operations; while my felt hat was in such adiscolored andbattered condition that I felt almost ashamed to put it on my head. Mywatch was gone; perhaps I had not been wearing it, but my pocket-book inwhich I had my money was safe in my breast pocket.Gladand grateful at having escaped with unbroken bones from such adangerous accident, I set out walking along the edge of the ravine,which soon broadened to a valley running between two steep hills; andthen, seeingwater at the bottom and feeling very dry, I ran down theslope to get a drink. Lying flat on my chest to slake my thirst animalfashion, I was amazed at the reflection the water gave back of my face:it was, skin and hair,thickly encrusted with clay and rootlets! Havingtaken a long drink, I threw off my clothes to have a bath; and aftersplashing about for half an hour managed to rid my skin of itsaccumulations of dirt. While drying in thewind I shook the loose sandand clay from my garments, then dressed, and, feeling greatly refreshed,proceeded on my walk.For an hour or so I followed the valley in its many windings, but,failing to see anydwelling-place, I ascended a hill to get a view ofthe surrounding country. The prospect which disclosed itself when I hadgot a couple of hundred feet above the surrounding level, appearedunfamiliar. The hills amongwhich I had been wandering were now behindme; before me spread a wide rolling country, beyond which rose amountain range resembling in the distance blue banked-up clouds withsummits and peaks of pearlywhiteness. Looking on this scene I couldhardly refrain from shouting with joy, so glad did the sunlit expanse ofearth, and the pure exhilarating mountain breeze, make me feel. Theseason was late summer--that wasplain to see; the ground was moist, asif from recent showers, and the earth everywhere had that intense livinggreenness with which it reclothes itself when the greater heats areover; but the foliage of the woods wasalready beginning to be touchedhere and there with the yellow and russet hues of decay. A more tranquiland soul-satisfying scene could not be imagined: the dear old motherearth was looking her very best; while theshifting golden sunlight, themysterious haze in the distance, and the glint of a wide stream not veryfar off, seemed to spiritualize her "happy autumn fields," and bringthem into a closer kinship with the blueover-arching sky. There was onelarge house or mansion in sight, but no town, nor even a hamlet, and notone solitary spire. In vain I scanned the horizon, waiting impatientlyto see the distant puff of white steam fromsome passing engine. Thistroubled me not a little, for I had no idea that I had drifted so farfrom civilization in my search for specimens, or whatever it was thatbrought me to this pretty, primitive wilderness. Not quite awilderness,however, for there, within a short hour's walk of the hill, stood theone great stone mansion, close to the river I had mentioned. There werealso horses and cows in sight, and a number of scattered sheepweregrazing on the hillside beneath me.Strange to relate, I met with a little misadventure on account of thesheep--an animal which one is accustomed to regard as of a timid andinoffensive nature. When I set out at abrisk pace to walk to the houseI have spoken of, in order to make some inquiries there, a few of thesheep that happened to be near began to bleat loudly, as if alarmed, andby and by they came hurrying after me,apparently in a great state ofexcitement. I did not mind them much, but presently a pair of horses,attracted by their bleatings, also seemed struck at my appearance, andcame at a swift gallop to within twenty yards ofme. They weremagnificent-looking brutes, evidently a pair of well-groomed carriagehorses, for their coats, which were of a fine bronze color, sparkledwonderfully in the sunshine. In other respects they were veryunlikecarriage animals, for they had tails reaching to the ground, likefuneral horses, and immense black leonine manes, which gave them astrikingly bold and somewhat formidable appearance. For some momentstheystood with heads erect, gazing fixedly at me, and thensimultaneously delivered a snort of defiance or astonishment, so loudand sudden that it startled me like the report of a gun. This tremendousequine blast broughtyet another enemy on the field in the shape of ahuge milk-white bull with long horns: a very noble kind of animal, butone which I always prefer to admire from behind a hedge, or at adistance through a field-glass.Fortunately his wrathful mutterings gaveme timely notice of his approach, and without waiting to discover hisintentions, I incontinently fled down the slope to the refuge of a groveor belt of trees clothing the lowerportion of the hillside. Spent andpanting from my run, I embraced a big tree, and turning to face the foe,found that I had not been followed: sheep, horses, and bull were allgrouped together just where I had left them,apparently holding aconsultation, or comparing notes.The trees where I had sought shelter were old, and grew here and there,singly or in scattered groups: it was a pretty wilderness of mingledtree, shrub and flower. Iwas surprised to find here some very large andancient-looking fig-trees, and numbers of wasps and flies were busyfeeding on a few over-ripe figs on the higher branches. Honey-bees alsoroamed about everywhere,extracting sweets from the autumn bloom, andfilling the sunny glades with a soft, monotonous murmur of sound.Walking on full of happy thoughts and a keen sense of the sweetness oflife pervading me, I presentlynoticed that a multitude of small birdswere gathering about me, flitting through the trees overhead and thebushes on either hand, but always keeping near me, apparently as muchexcited at my presence as if I hadbeen a gigantic owl, or some suchunnatural monster. Their increasing numbers and incessant excitedchirping and chattering at first served to amuse, but in the end beganto irritate me. I observed, too, that the alarmwas spreading, and thatlarger birds, usually shy of men--pigeons, jays, and magpies, I fanciedthey were--now began to make their appearance. Could it be, thought Iwith some concern, that I had wandered into someuninhabited wilderness,to cause so great a commotion among the little feathered people? I verysoon dismissed this as an idle thought, for one does not find houses,domestic animals, and fruit-trees in desert places. No,it was simplythe inherent cantankerousness of little birds which caused them to annoyme. Looking about on the ground for something to throw at them, I foundin the grass a freshly-fallen walnut, and, breaking theshell, I quicklyate the contents. Never had anything tasted so pleasant to me before!But it had a curious effect on me, for, whereas before eating it I hadnot felt hungry, I now seemed to be famishing, and beganexcitedlysearching about for more nuts. They were lying everywhere in thegreatest abundance; for, without knowing it, I had been walking througha grove composed in large part of old walnut-trees. Nut after nutwaspicked up and eagerly devoured, and I must have eaten four or five dozenbefore my ravenous appetite was thoroughly appeased. During this feast Ihad paid no attention to the birds, but when my hunger was overI beganagain to feel annoyed at their trivial persecutions, and so continued togather the fallen nuts to throw at them. It amused and piqued me at thesame time to see how wide of the mark my missiles went. I couldhardlyhave hit a haystack at a distance of ten yards. After half an hour'svigorous practice my right hand began to recover its lost cunning, and Iwas at last greatly delighted when of my nuts went hissing like abulletthrough the leaves, not further than a yard from the wren, or whateverthe little beggar was, I had aimed at. Their Impertinences did not likethis at all; they began to find out that I was a rather dangerouspersonto meddle with: their ranks were broken, they became demoralized andscattered, in all directions, and I was finally left master of thefield."Dolt that I am," I suddenly exclaimed, "to be fooling away my timewhenthe nearest railway station or hotel is perhaps twenty miles away."I hurried on, but when I got to the end of the grove, on the green swardnear some laurel and juniper bushes, I came on an excavationapparentlyjust made, the loose earth which had been dug out looking quite freshand moist. The hole or foss was narrow, about five feet deep and sevenfeet long, and looked, I imagined, curiously like a grave. A fewyardsaway was a pile of dry brushwood, and some faggots bound together withropes of straw, all apparently freshly cut from the neighboring bushes.As I stood there, wondering what these things meant, I happenedtoglance away in the direction of the house where I intended to call,which was not now visible owing to an intervening grove of tall trees,and was surprised to discover a troop of about fifteen persons advancingalongthe valley in my direction. Before them marched a tallwhite-bearded old man; next came eight men, bearing a platform on theirshoulders with some heavy burden resting upon it; and behind thesefollowed the others. Ibegan to think that they were actually carrying acorpse, with the intention of giving it burial in that very pit besidewhich I was standing; and, although it looked most unlike a funeral, forno person in the procession woreblack, the thought strengthened to aconviction when I became able to distinguish a recumbent, human-likeform in a shroud-like covering on the platform. It seemed altogether avery unusual proceeding, and made mefeel extremely uncomfortable; somuch so that I considered it prudent to step back behind the bushes,where I could watch the doings of the processionists without beingobserved.Led by the old man--who carried,suspended by thin chains, a largebronze censer, or brazier rather, which sent out a thin continuouswreath of smoke--they came straight on to the pit; and after depositingtheir burden on the grass, remained standingfor some minutes,apparently to rest after their walk, all conversing together, but insubdued tones, so that I could not catch their words, although standingwithin fifteen yards of the grave. The uncoffined corpse, whichseemedthat of a full-grown man, was covered with a white cloth, and rested ona thick straw mat, provided with handles along the sides. On thesethings, however, I bestowed but a hasty glance, so profoundlyabsorbedhad I become in watching the group of living human beings before me; forthey were certainly utterly unlike any fellow-creatures I had everencountered before. The old man was tall and spare, and fromhissnowy-white majestic beard I took him to be about seventy years old; buthe was straight as an arrow, and his free movements and elastic treadwere those of a much younger man. His head was adorned with a darkredskull-cap, and he wore a robe covering the whole body and reaching tothe ankles, of a deep yellow or rhubarb color; but his long wide sleevesunder his robe were dark red, embroidered with yellow flowers. Theothermen had no covering on their heads, and their luxuriant hair, worn tothe shoulders, was, in most cases, very dark. Their garments were alsomade in a different fashion, and consisted of a kilt-like dress, whichcamehalf-way to the knees, a pale yellow shirt fitting tight to theskin, and over it a loose sleeveless vest. The entire legs were cased instockings, curious in pattern and color. The women wore garmentsresembling those ofthe men, but the tight-fitting sleeves reached onlyhalf-way to the elbow, the rest of the arm being bare; and theoutergarment was all in one piece, resembling a long sleeveless jacket,reaching below the hips. The colorof their dresses varied, but in mostcases different shades of blue and subdued yellow predominated. In all,the stockings showed deeper and richer shades of color than the othergarments; and in their curiouslysegmented appearance, and in theharmonious arrangement of the tints, they seemed to represent the skinsof pythons and other beautifully variegated serpents. All wore low shoesof an orange-brown color, fittingclosely so as to display the shape ofthe foot.From the moment of first seeing them I had had no doubt about the sex ofthe tall old leader of the procession, his shining white beard being asconspicuous at a distance as ashield or a banner; but looking at theothers I was at first puzzled to know whether the party was composed ofmen or women, or of both, so much did they resemble each other inheight, in their smooth faces, and in thelength of their hair. On acloser inspection I noticed the difference of dress of the sexes; alsothat the men, if not sterner, had faces at all events less mild and softin expression than the women, and also a slightperceptible down on thecheeks and upper lip.After a first hasty survey of the group in general, I had eyes for onlyone person in it--a fine graceful girl about fourteen years old, and theyoungest by far of the party. Adescription of this girl will give someidea, albeit a very poor one, of the faces and general appearance ofthis strange people I had stumbled on. Her dress, if a garment so briefcan be called a dress, showed a slaty-bluepattern on a straw-coloredground, while her stockings were darker shades of the same colors. Hereyes, at the distance I stood from her, appeared black, or nearly black,but when seen closely they proved to begreen--a wonderfully pure,tender sea-green; and the others, I found, had eyes of the same hue. Herhair fell to her shoulders; but it was very wavy or curly, and strayedin small tendril-like tresses over her neck,forehead and cheeks; incolor it was golden black--that is, black in shade, but when touchedwith sunlight every hair became a thread of shining red-gold; and insome lights it looked like raven-black hair powdered withgold-dust. Asto her features, the forehead was broader and lower, the nose larger,and the lips more slender, than in our most beautiful female types. Thecolor was also different, the delicately molded mouth beingpurple-redinstead of the approved cherry or coral hue; while the complexion was aclear dark, and the color, which mantled the cheeks in moments ofexcitement, was a dim or dusky rather than a rosy red.The exquisiteform and face of this young girl, from the first moment ofseeing her, produced a very deep impression; and I continued watchingher every movement and gesture with an intense, even a passionateinterest. She had aquantity of flowers in her hand; but these sweetemblems, I observed, were all gayly colored, which seemed strange, forin most places white flowers are used in funeral ceremonies. Some of themen who had followedthe body carried in their hands broad,three-cornered bronze shovels, with short black handles, and these theyhad dropped upon the grass on arriving at the grave. Presently the oldman stooped and drew the coveringback from the dead one's face--arigid, marble-white face set in a loose mass of black hair. The othersgathered round, and some standing, others kneeling, bent on the stillcountenance before them a long earnest gaze,


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Time Traders, by Andre NortonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it underthe terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Time TradersAuthor: Andre NortonRelease Date: August 29, 2006 [EBook #19145]Language: English***START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIME TRADERS ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Irma Spehar and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.netTHE TIME TRADERSBY ANDRENORTON_Science Fiction_THE STARS ARE OURS!STAR BORNTHE TIME TRADERS_Historical Fiction_YANKEE PRIVATEER_Edited by Andre Norton_BULLARD OF THE SPACE PATROLSPACE SERVICESPACE PIONEERSSPACEPOLICE_Andre Norton_THE TIMETRADERSCLEVELAND AND NEW YORKTHE WORLD PUBLISHING COMPANY_Published by_ The World Publishing Company 2231 West 110th Street,Cleveland 2, Ohio_Publishedsimultaneously in Canada by_ Nelson, Foster & Scott Ltd._Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 58-11154_SECOND PRINTING2WP759Copyright (c) 1958 by The World Publishing Company All rights reserved.Nopart of this book may be reproduced in any form without writtenpermission from the publisher, except for brief passages included in areview appearing in a newspaper or magazine. Printed in the UnitedStates ofAmerica.Transcriber's note:Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright onthis publication was renewed.THE TIME TRADERSCHAPTER 1To anyone who glanced casually inside the detention roomthe young mansitting there did not seem very formidable. In height he might have beena little above average, but not enough to make him noticeable. His brownhair was cropped conservatively; his unlined boy's facewas not one tobe remembered--unless one was observant enough to note those light-grayeyes and catch a chilling, measuring expression showing now and then foran instant in their depths.Neatly and inconspicuouslydressed, in this last quarter of thetwentieth century his like was to be found on any street of the city tenfloors below--to all outward appearances. But that other person underthe protective coloring so assiduouslycultivated could touch heights ofencased and controlled fury which Murdock himself did not understand andwas only just learning to use as a weapon against a world he had alwaysfound hostile.He was aware, though hegave no sign of it, that a guard was watchinghim. The cop on duty was an old hand--he probably expected some reactionother than passive acceptance from the prisoner. But he was not goingto get it. The law had Rosssewed up tight this time. Why didn't theyget about the business of shipping him off? Why had he had thatafternoon session with the skull thumper? Ross had been on the defensivethen, and he had not liked it. He hadgiven to the other's questions allthe attention his shrewd mind could muster, but a faint, very faint,apprehension still clung to the memory of that meeting.The door of the detention room opened. Ross did not turn hishead, butthe guard cleared his throat as if their hour of mutual silence haddried his vocal cords. "On your feet, Murdock! The judge wants to seeyou."Ross rose smoothly, with every muscle under fluid control. It neverpaidto talk back, to allow any sign of defiance to show. He would go throughthe motions as if he were a bad little boy who had realized his errors.It was a meek-and-mild act that had paid off more than once inRoss'scheckered past. So he faced the man seated behind the desk in the otherroom with an uncertain, diffident smile, standing with boyishawkwardness, respectfully waiting for the other to speak first.Judge OrdRawle. It was his rotten luck to pull old Eagle Beak on hiscase. Well, he would simply have to take it when the old boy dished itout. Not that he had to remain stuck with it later...."You have a bad record, youngman."Ross allowed his smile to fade; his shoulders slumped. But underconcealing lids his eyes showed an instant of cold defiance."Yes, sir," he agreed in a voice carefully cultivated to shakeconvincingly about theedges. Then suddenly all Ross's pleasure in theskill of his act was wiped away. Judge Rawle was not alone; that blastedskull thumper was sitting there, watching the prisoner with the samekeenness he had shown theother day."A very bad record for the few years you have had to make it." EagleBeak was staring at him, too, but without the same look of penetration,luckily for Ross. "By rights, you should be turned over to thenewRehabilitation Service...."Ross froze inside. That was the "treatment," icy rumors of which hadspread throughout his particular world. For the second time since he hadentered the room his self-confidence wasjarred. Then he clung with adegree of hope to the phrasing of that last sentence."Instead, I have been authorized to offer you a choice, Murdock. Onewhich I shall state--and on record--I do not in the leastapprove."Ross's twinge of fear faded. If the judge didn't like it, there must besomething in it to the advantage of Ross Murdock. He'd grab it for sure!"There is a government project in need of volunteers. It seems thatyouhave tested out as possible material for this assignment. If you signfor it, the law will consider the time spent on it as part of yoursentence. Thus you may aid the country which you haveheretoforedisgraced----""And if I refuse, I go to this rehabilitation. Is that right, sir?""I certainly consider you a fit candidate for rehabilitation. Yourrecord--" He shuffled through the papers on his desk."I choose tovolunteer for the project, sir."The judge snorted and pushed all the papers into a folder. He spoke to aman waiting in the shadows. "Here then is your volunteer, Major."Ross bottled in his relief. He was over the firsthump. And since hisluck had held so far, he might be about to win all the way....The man Judge Rawle called "Major" moved into the light. At the firstglance Ross, to his hidden annoyance, found himself uneasy. To faceupto Eagle Beak was all part of the game. But somehow he sensed one didnot play such games with this man."Thank you, your honor. We will be on our way at once. This weather isnot very promising."Before herealized what was happening, Ross found himself walking meeklyto the door. He considered trying to give the major the slip when theyleft the building, losing himself in a storm-darkened city. But they didnot take theelevator downstairs. Instead, they climbed two or threeflights up the emergency stairs. And to his humiliation Ross foundhimself panting and slowing, while the other man, who must have been agood dozen years hissenior, showed no signs of discomfort.They came out into the snow on the roof, and the major flashed a torchskyward, guiding in a dark shadow which touched down before them. Ahelicopter! For the first time Rossbegan to doubt the wisdom of hischoice."On your way, Murdock!" The voice was impersonal enough, but that veryimpersonality got under one's skin.Bundled into the machine between the silent major and an equallyquietpilot in uniform, Ross was lifted over the city, whose ways he knew aswell as he knew the lines on his own palm, into the unknown he wasalready beginning to regard dubiously. The lighted streets andbuildings,their outlines softened by the soft wet snow, fell out ofsight. Now they could mark the outer highways. Ross refused to ask anyquestions. He could take this silent treatment; he _had_ taken a lot oftougher things in thepast.The patches of light disappeared, and the country opened out. The planebanked. Ross, with all the familiar landmarks of his world gone, couldnot have said if they were headed north or south. But moments laternoteven the thick curtain of snowflakes could blot out the pattern of redlights on the ground, and the helicopter settled down."Come on!"For the second time Ross obeyed. He stood shivering, engulfed in aminiatureblizzard. His clothing, protection enough in the city, didlittle good against the push of the wind. A hand gripped his upper arm,and he was drawn forward to a low building. A door banged and Ross andhis companioncame into a region of light and very welcome heat."Sit down--over there!"Too bewildered to resent orders, Ross sat. There were other men in theroom. One, wearing a queer suit of padded clothing, a bulbousheadgearhooked over his arm, was reading a paper. The major crossed to speak tohim and after they conferred for a moment, the major beckoned Ross witha crooked finger. Ross trailed the officer into an inner roomlined withlockers.From one of the lockers the major pulled a suit like the pilot's, andbegan to measure it against Ross. "All right," he snapped. "Climb intothis! We haven't all night."Ross climbed into the suit. As soon ashe fastened the last zipper hiscompanion jammed one of the domed helmets on his head. The pilot lookedin the door. "We'd better scramble, Kelgarries, or we may be groundedfor the duration!"They hurried back to theflying field. If the helicopter had been asurprising mode of travel, this new machine was something straight outof the future--a needle-slim ship poised on fins, its sharp nose liftingvertically into the heavens. There wasa scaffolding along one side,which the pilot scaled to enter the ship.Unwillingly, Ross climbed the same ladder and found that he must wedgehimself in on his back, his knees hunched up almost under his chin. Tomake itworse, cramped as those quarters were, he had to share them withthe major. A transparent hood snapped down and was secured, sealing themin.During his short lifetime Ross had often been afraid, bitterly afraid.Hehad fought to toughen his mind and body against such fears. But whathe experienced now was no ordinary fear; it was panic so strong that itmade him feel sick. To be shut in this small place with the knowledgethat hehad no control over his immediate future brought him face toface with every terror he had ever known, all of them combined into onehorrible whole.How long does a nightmare last? A moment? An hour? Ross could nottimehis. But at last the weight of a giant hand clamped down on his chest,and he fought for breath until the world exploded about him.He came back to consciousness slowly. For a second he thought he wasblind. Thenhe began to sort out one shade of grayish light fromanother. Finally, Ross became aware that he no longer rested on hisback, but was slumped in a seat. The world about him was wrung with avibration that beat in turnthrough his body.Ross Murdock had remained at liberty as long as he had because he wasable to analyze a situation quickly. Seldom in the past five years hadhe been at a loss to deal with any challenging person oraction. Now hewas aware that he was on the defensive and was being kept there. Hestared into the dark and thought hard and furiously. He was convincedthat everything that was happening to him this day wasdesigned withonly one end in view--to shake his self-confidence and make him pliable.Why?Ross had an enduring belief in his own abilities and he also possesseda kind of shrewd understanding seldom granted to oneso young. He knewthat while Murdock was important to Murdock, he was none too importantin the scheme of things as a whole. He had a record--a record so badthat Rawle might easily have thrown the book at him.But it differed inone important way from that of many of his fellows; until now he hadbeen able to beat most of the raps. Ross believed this was largelybecause he had always worked alone and taken pains to plan a jobinadvance.Why now had Ross Murdock become so important to someone that they woulddo all this to shake him? He was a volunteer--for what? To be a guineapig for some bug they wanted to learn how to kill cheaplyand easily?They'd been in a big hurry to push him off base. Using the silenttreatment, this rushing around in planes, they were really working tokeep him groggy. So, all right, he'd give them a groggy boy all set upfortheir job, whatever it was. Only, was his act good enough to foolthe major? Ross had a hunch that it might not be, and that really hurt.It was deep night now. Either they had flown out of the path of thestorm or wereabove it. There were stars shining through the cover ofthe cockpit, but no moon.Ross's formal education was sketchy, but in his own fashion he hadacquired a range of knowledge which would have surprised many oftheauthorities who had had to deal with him. All the wealth of a big citylibrary had been his to explore, and he had spent much time there,soaking up facts in many odd branches of learning. Facts were veryusefulthings. On at least three occasions assorted scraps of knowledgehad preserved Ross's freedom, once, perhaps his life.Now he tried to fit together the scattered facts he knew about hispresent situation into some properpattern. He was inside some new typeof super-super atomjet, a machine so advanced in design that it wouldnot have been used for anything that was not an important mission. Whichmeant that Ross Murdock hadbecome necessary to someone, somewhere.Knowing that fact should give him a slight edge in the future, and hemight well need such an edge. He'd just have to wait, play dumb, and usehis eyes and ears.At the ratethey were shooting along they ought to be out of the countryin a couple of hours. Didn't the Government have bases half over theworld to keep the "cold peace"? Well, there was nothing for it. To beplanted abroadsomeplace might interfere with plans for escape, but he'dhandle that detail when he was forced to face it.Then suddenly Ross was on his back once more, the giant hand digginginto his chest and middle. This time therewere no lights on the groundto guide them in. Ross had no intimation that they had reached theirdestination until they set down with a jar which snapped his teethtogether.The major wriggled out, and Ross was able tostretch his cramped body.But the other's hand was already on his shoulder, urging him along. Rosscrawled free and clung dizzily to a ladderlike disembarking structure.Below there were no lights, only an expanse ofopen snow. Men weremoving across that blank area, gathering at the foot of the ladder. Rosswas hungry and very tired. If the major wanted to play games, he hopedthat such action could wait until the next morning.Inthe meantime he must learn where "here" was. If he had a chance torun, he wanted to know the surrounding territory. But that hand was onhis arm, drawing him along toward a door that stood half-open. As far asRosscould see, it led to the interior of a hillock of snow. Either thestorm or men had done a very good cover-up job, and somehow Ross knewthe camouflage was intentional.That was Ross's introduction to the base, andafter his arrival his viewof the installation was extremely limited. One day was spent inundergoing the most searching physical he had ever experienced. Andafter the doctors had poked and pried he was faced by aseries of othertests no one bothered to explain. Thereafter he was introduced tosolitary, that is, confined to his own company in a cell-like room witha bunk that was more comfortable than it looked and an announcer inacorner of the ceiling. So far he had been told exactly nothing. And sofar he had asked no questions, stubbornly keeping up his end of what hebelieved to be a tug of wills. At the moment, safely alone and lyingflat onhis bunk he eyed the announcer, a very dangerous young man andone who refused to yield an inch."Now hear this...." The voice transmitted through that grill wasmetallic, but its rasp held overtones of Kelgarries'voice. Ross's lipstightened. He had explored every inch of the walls and knew that therewas no trace of the door which had admitted him. With only his barehands to work with he could not break out, and his onlyclothes were theshirt, sturdy slacks, and a pair of soft-soled moccasins that they hadgiven him."... to identify ..." droned the voice. Ross realized that he must havemissed something, not that it mattered. He was almostdetermined not toplay along any more.There was a click, signifying that Kelgarries was through braying. Butthe customary silence did not close in again. Instead, Ross heard aclear, sweet trilling which he vaguelyassociated with a bird. Hisacquaintance with all feathered life was limited to city sparrows andplump park pigeons, neither of which raised their voices in song, butsurely those sounds were bird notes. Ross glanced fromthe mike in theceiling to the opposite wall and what he saw there made him sit up, withthe instant response of an alerted fighter.For the wall was no longer there! Instead, there was a sharp slope ofground cutting downfrom peaks where the dark green of fir trees ranclose to the snow line. Patches of snow clung to the earth in shelteredplaces, and the scent of those pines was in Ross's nostrils, real as thewind touching him with itschill.He shivered as a howl sounded loudly and echoed, bearing the age-oldwarning of a wolf pack, hungry and a-hunt. Ross had never heard thatsound before, but his human heritage subconsciously recognized itforwhat it was--death on four feet. Similarly, he was able to identify thegray shadows slinking about the nearest trees, and his hands balled intofists as he looked wildly about him for some weapon.The bunk was underhim and three of the four walls of the room enclosedhim like a cave. But one of those gray skulkers had raised its head andwas looking directly at him, its reddish eyes alight. Ross ripped thetop blanket off the bunk witha half-formed idea of snapping it at theanimal when it sprang.Stiff-legged, the beast advanced, a guttural growl sounding deep in itsthroat. To Ross the animal, larger than any dog he had even seen andtwice as vicious,was a monster. He had the blanket ready before herealized that the wolf was not watching him after all, and that itsattention was focused on a point out of his line of vision.The wolfs muzzle wrinkled in a snarl,revealing long yellow-white teeth.There was a singing twang, and the animal leaped into the air, fellback, and rolled on the ground, biting despairingly at a shaftprotruding from just behind its ribs. It howled again, andblood brokefrom its mouth.Ross was beyond surprise now. He pulled himself together and got up, towalk steadily toward the dying wolf. And he wasn't in the least amazedwhen his outstretched hands flattened againstan unseen barrier. Slowly,he swept his hands right and left, sure that he was touching the wall ofhis cell. Yet his eyes told him he was on a mountain side, and everysight, sound, and smell was making it real tohim.Puzzled, he thought a moment and then, finding an explanation thatsatisfied him, he nodded once and went back to sit at ease on his bunk.This must be some superior form of TV that included odors, the illusionofwind, and other fancy touches to make it more vivid. The total effectwas so convincing that Ross had to keep reminding himself that it wasall just a picture.The wolf was dead. Its pack mates had fled into the brush, butsince thepicture remained, Ross decided that the show was not yet over. He couldstill hear a click of sound, and he waited for the next bit of action.But the reason for his viewing it still eluded him.A man came into view,crossing before Ross. He stooped to examine thedead wolf, catching it by the tail and hoisting its hindquarters off theground. Comparing the beast's size with the hunter's, Ross saw that hehad not been wrong in hisestimation of the animal's unusually largedimensions. The man shouted over his shoulder, his words distinctenough, but unintelligible to Ross.The stranger was oddly dressed--too lightly dressed if one judged theclimateby the frequent snow patches and the biting cold. A strip ofcoarse cloth, extending from his armpit to about four inches above theknee, was wound about his body and pulled in at the waist by a belt. Thebelt, far moreornate than the cumbersome wrapping, was made of manysmall chains linking metal plates and supported a long dagger whichhung straight in front. The man also wore a round blue cloak, now sweptback on hisshoulders to free his bare arms, which was fastened by alarge pin under his chin. His footgear, which extended above his calves,was made of animal hide, still bearing patches of shaggy hair. His facewas beardless,though a shadowy line along his chin suggested that hehad not shaved that particular day. A fur cap concealed most of hisdark-brown hair.Was he an Indian? No, for although his skin was tanned, it was as fairas Ross'sunder that weathering. And his clothing did not resemble anyIndian apparel Ross had ever seen. Yet, in spite of his primitivetrappings, the man had such an aura of authority, of self-confidence,and competence that itwas clear he was top dog in his own section ofthe world.Soon another man, dressed much like the first, but with a rust-browncloak, came along, pulling behind him two very reluctant donkeys, whoseeyes rolled fearfully


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                          CHRONICLE                          Written by                          Max Landis                      Based on a storyby                   Josh Trank and Max Landis   FROM ANDREW'S FIRST CAMERA.   CUT - to indicate time lapses within a scene   INT. DETMER RESIDENCE - ANDREW'S ROOM   The room is dingy.Unkempt. The camera sits on the bed, on   its side, facing the door. We can hear someone moving around   off screen.   The door handle clicks; someone's trying it.    Then nothing.   Then, suddenly, loud pounding onthe door.   Andrew's voice is scratchy and prone to cracking.   He speaks   with a rushed mix of fear and anxiety.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          What do you want, I'm getting ready          forschool-                    MR. DETMER (O.S.)          Why is the door locked, unlock this          fucking door right now.   The bed stirs as Andrew sits down.                    MR. DETMER (O.S.)(CONT'D)          I said unlock this door. UNLOCK          THE DOOR. OPEN THE DOOR, NOW.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          You're drunk-                     MR. DETMER(O.S.)          Listen, you don't tell me- IF I'M          DRUNK, OR-                    ANDREW (O.S.)          It's seven thirty. In the AM.          You're drunk, dad, that's crazy-                    MR.DETMER (O.S.)          What're you doing in there.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          I'm filming this.                    MR. DETMER (O.S.)          What?                    ANDREW(O.S.)          I bought a camera. I'm filming all          your shit from now on.                                                         2.   There's a beat, and then we can hear Mr. Detmer moving away   from thedoor.   INT. DETMER RESIDENCE - SANDRA DETMER'S ROOM   Equally dingy. SANDRA DETMER, gaunt and sickly, is sat up in   bed. Andrew's filming her. She's clearly very ill, speaking   in a weak rasp.Andrew now holds the camera.                   ANDREW (O.S.)          Mom? Will you say hi to the          camera?                    SANDRA DETMER          Who's the audience?                    ANDREW(O.S.)          The millions of people watching at          home.                    SANDRA DETMER          Hello world. Do I look awful?                    ANDREW (O.S.)          No, you lookgreat.                    SANDRA DETMER          I've been looking a little better,          yeah?                    ANDREW (O.S.)          Oh yeah, definitely.                    SANDRA DETMER          It's anice camera.   EXT. CLARK STREET - MORNING   Clark Street is a slummy mess; dead lawns, potholes in the   street in a downtrodden suburb of Portland Oregon. Andrew   carries the camera loosely at hisside before getting into   the passenger side of a car.   In the driver's seat is MATT Garrety, 17, with messy hair.   He's disaffected, and more than a little cynical; the   reasoned demeanor of an unpretentioushigh-school   intellectual.                    MATT          I got you egg salad.                                                    3.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          Oh, yeah,thanks.                                                 CUT.  They're driving.                    MATT          So...Should I ask about the camera,          or-                    ANDREW (O.S.)          I'm filmingthings now. I'm          filming everything.                    MATT          You're filming everything.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          For my mom. I'm trying to get          custody of her from my dad.She's          getting worse, and he's          not...helping, and this way, in          case something goes down-                    MATT          He gets violent or whatever-                    ANDREW(O.S.)          Right, it'd be evidence.                    MATT          Evidence. But you're not with him          right now, but you're filming this.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          Well, yeah, to addcontext.                     MATT          Context.   Andrew, you are...a weird          dude.                                                 CUT.                    MATT (CONT'D)          Did you ever read anyAuguste          Comte?                    ANDREW (O.S.)          What is that?                    MATT          He's this philosopher I'mreading.                                                            4.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          For school?                    MATT          He's just like- his whole thing is          about being positiveand like,          taking up for yourself. You should          read him, maybe, it might make you          feel- you know, improve your          outlook.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          Yeah, right.EXT.BENJAMIN FRANKLIN HIGH - PARKING LOTAndrew's getting out of the car, but then ducks back in tosee Matt lighting a pipe.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          Are you not comingin?                    MATT          I'm gonna blaze a little first,          yeah?                    ANDREW (O.S.)          You're going to miss first period-Matt turns on the radio, loud.                    ANDREW(O.S.) (CONT'D)          Okay, okay.INT. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN HIGH - HALLWAYAndrew's filming himself putting stuff in his locker, anddoes a quick sweep of the crowded schoolhallway.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          This is my school, I guess.   This          is the hallway-                    GIRL          Vote "Kaz!"A girl suddenly approaches, awkwardly handing Andrew aflyer.                    GIRL (CONT'D)          Vote Steve Kazinsky for Senior          class president!                                                            5.                     ANDREW(O.S.)          ...yeah-                    GIRL          Every vote counts.Andrew films the flyer for a moment, brightly colored andfeaturing a picture of a smiling Steve Kazinsky, beforesomething yanks thecamera away.For the first time we see ANDREW Detmer, 17, pale, awkwardand gangly, with long, stringy hair and thin, scraggly beard.He looks anxious, if not afraid.                    BRYCE (O.S.)          Yo thiscamera is a piece of shit.          It's like from 2004 or some shit.WAYNE, 17, big and hateable in his Ed Hardy T-shirt, appearswrapping his arm roughly around Andrew.                    WAYNE          Hey, how doI look?              (starts muscle posing)          Like this? Ooh, that's good.   Like          this? That's sexy, right?                    ANDREW          Bryce, gimme my camera back-                    BRYCE(O.S.)          Fuck you Andrew, shut up.   This          camera's a piece of shit.                    WAYNE          You got me, let's go.Wayne turns and knocks everything out of Andrew's locker.Bryce starts towalk away with the camera.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          Hey, Bryce, come on, give it back-The camera is set down on the ground, and then abruptlykicked back to Andrew. He picks it up, checking onit.                    ANDREW (CONT'D)              (quietly, sad)          Oh come on...                                                            6.EXT. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN HIGH - FOOTBALL FIELDA view fromthe bleachers as the soccer team practices. Thecheerleaders are practicing too. We cut: a different view,lower.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          This is where I eat lunch, out here          on thebleachers.                                                CUT.   LATER.The camera's next to Andrew as he's eating, down on thebench. A CHEERLEADERapproaches.                     CHEERLEADER          Hi.                     ANDREW          Hey-                    CHEERLEADER          Could you not videotape us, please?          It's really fuckingcreepy.                    ANDREW          I wasn't, videotaping you, so much          as I was just-         CHEERLEADER                           ANDREWJust don't videotape-              -you know, filming what Ido                                   during the-                    CHEERLEADER          Don't videotape us, okay, or we'll          call security. We see you watching          us, we're not stupid, and it's          sketchy, so backoff.                     ANDREW          ...okay.                    CHEERLEADER          Is it on right now?                     ANDREW          Yes.                    CHEERLEADER          Turn itoff.Andrew turns off the camera.                                                          7.INT. MATT'S CARMatt's driving.   Andrew's filming from the passenger seat.                    MATT          There's aparty tonight.    A barn          party at Haven Hills.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          I thought Haven Hills was closed.                    MATT          It's abandoned, yeah. That's why          it's a goodplace for a party. Two          kegs.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          Why are you telling me?                    MATT          You wanna go? I don't wanna go          alone.                      ANDREW(O.S.)          ...Nah...                    MATT          When was the last time you went to          a party?                    ANDREW (O.S.)          I don't likeparties.                    MATT          You're a senior.     Just come, you'll          have fun.                    ANDREW (O.S.)          I'll think about it.                    MATT          Okay, right. Andrew,can I give          you like, a pro tip?                      ANDREW          Yeah?                    MATT          Keep the camera at home.    It's          weird.                    ANDREW          It has apurpose-                                                           8.                    MATT          I'm trying to be a good cousin,          here. This is me being your          friend, yeah? Okay?EXT. DETMERRESIDENCEAndrew is filming as he walks along towards his house.                    HOWARD (O.S.)          Hey, what you doing?                    COSTLY (O.S.)          Hey nice camera bitch, gimmeyour          fuckin camera!The camera pans up to reveal HOWARD and COSTLY, moronhoodlums, along with several friends, over by a car on theother side of the road, drinkingforties.                    HOWARD          Hey don't film me nigga, don't film          me.                    COSTLY          Hey fuck off, you better run to          your house, bitch. Run to your          house andlock the door.Andrew just stands there filming them. Howard hurls hisforty at Andrew, who doesn't move; it shatters very near tohim.                    HOWARD          The fuck, fuck you faggot-Howard quicklystarts crossing the street, and Andrew turnsand runs back towards his house.INT. DETMER RESIDENCE - ANDREW'S ROOMThe camera lays on Andrew's bed again, filming the room.Andrew is on his laptop at adesk, working.                    ANDREW          I'm uploading what I shot          today...you have to keep a back-up,          you know.The door suddenly opens, revealing MR. Adrian DETMER, 40s,Andrew's father.


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, Mary Barton, by Elizabeth Cleghorn GaskellThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use itunder the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: Mary Barton       A Tale of Manchester LifeAuthor: Elizabeth Cleghorn GaskellRelease Date: August 10,1999  [eBook #2153]This revision released December 9, 2013Language: English***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY BARTON***E-text prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset,and revised byJoseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.Editorial note:      _Mary Barton_, Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell's first novel,      was published (anonymously) in 1848 by Chapman and Hall.MARY BARTONA Tale of ManchesterLifebyELIZABETH GASKELL   "'How knowest thou,' may the distressed Novel-wright exclaim,   'that I, here where I sit, am the Foolishest of existing   mortals; that this my Long-ear of a fictitious Biography shall   notfind one and the other, into whose still longer ears it   may be the means, under Providence, of instilling somewhat?'   We answer, 'None knows, none can certainly know: therefore,   write on, worthy Brother, even asthou canst, even as it is   given thee.'"      CARLYLE.CONTENTS            PREFACE.         I. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.        II. A MANCHESTER TEA-PARTY.       III. JOHN BARTON'S GREAT TROUBLE.        IV. OLDALICE'S HISTORY.         V. THE MILL ON FIRE--JEM WILSON TO THE RESCUE.        VI. POVERTY AND DEATH.       VII. JEM WILSON'S REPULSE.      VIII. MARGARET'S DEBUT AS A PUBLIC SINGER.        IX. BARTON'SLONDON EXPERIENCES.         X. RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.    XI. MR. CARSON'S INTENTIONS REVEALED.       XII. OLD ALICE'S BAIRN.      XIII. A TRAVELLER'S TALES.       XIV. JEM'S INTERVIEW WITH POORESTHER.        XV. A VIOLENT MEETING BETWEEN THE RIVALS.       XVI. MEETING BETWEEN MASTERS AND WORKMEN.      XVII. BARTON'S NIGHT-ERRAND.     XVIII. MURDER.       XIX. JEM WILSON ARRESTED ONSUSPICION.        XX. MARY'S DREAM--AND THE AWAKENING.       XXI. ESTHER'S MOTIVE IN SEEKING MARY.      XXII. MARY'S EFFORTS TO PROVE AN ALIBI.     XXIII. THE SUB-POENA.      XXIV. WITH THEDYING.       XXV. MRS. WILSON'S DETERMINATION.      XXVI. THE JOURNEY TO LIVERPOOL.     XXVII. IN THE LIVERPOOL DOCKS.    XXVIII. "JOHN CROPPER, AHOY!"      XXIX. A TRUE BILL AGAINST JEM.       XXX.JOB LEGH'S DECEPTION.      XXXI. HOW MARY PASSED THE NIGHT.     XXXII. THE TRIAL AND VERDICT--"NOT GUILTY."    XXXIII. REQUIESCAT IN PACE.     XXXIV. THE RETURN HOME.      XXXV. "FORGIVE US OURTRESPASSES."     XXXVI. JEM'S INTERVIEW WITH MR. DUNCOMBE.    XXXVII. DETAILS CONNECTED WITH THE MURDER.   XXXVIII. CONCLUSION.PREFACE.Three years ago I became anxious (from circumstances thatneed not bemore fully alluded to) to employ myself in writing a work of fiction.Living in Manchester, but with a deep relish and fond admiration forthe country, my first thought was to find a frame-work for my storyinsome rural scene; and I had already made a little progress in atale, the period of which was more than a century ago, and the placeon the borders of Yorkshire, when I bethought me how deep might bethe romance inthe lives of some of those who elbowed me daily in thebusy streets of the town in which I resided. I had always felt a deepsympathy with the care-worn men, who looked as if doomed to strugglethrough their lives instrange alternations between work and want;tossed to and fro by circumstances, apparently in even a greaterdegree than other men. A little manifestation of this sympathy, anda little attention to the expression offeelings on the part of someof the work-people with whom I was acquainted, had laid open to methe hearts of one or two of the more thoughtful among them; I sawthat they were sore and irritable against the rich, theeven tenorof whose seemingly happy lives appeared to increase the anguishcaused by the lottery-like nature of their own. Whether the bittercomplaints made by them, of the neglect which they experienced fromtheprosperous--especially from the masters whose fortunes they hadhelped to build up--were well-founded or no, it is not for me tojudge. It is enough to say, that this belief of the injustice andunkindness which theyendure from their fellow-creatures, taints whatmight be resignation to God's will, and turns it to revenge in toomany of the poor uneducated factory-workers of Manchester.The more I reflected on this unhappy state ofthings between thoseso bound to each other by common interests, as the employers andthe employed must ever be, the more anxious I became to give someutterance to the agony which, from time to time, convulsesthis dumbpeople; the agony of suffering without the sympathy of the happy, orof erroneously believing that such is the case. If it be an error,that the woes, which come with ever-returning tide-like flood tooverwhelmthe workmen in our manufacturing towns, pass unregardedby all but the sufferers, it is at any rate an error so bitter inits consequences to all parties, that whatever public effort can doin the way of legislation, or privateeffort in the way of mercifuldeeds, or helpless love in the way of "widow's mites," should bedone, and that speedily, to disabuse the work-people of so miserablea misapprehension. At present they seem to me to be leftin a state,wherein lamentations and tears are thrown aside as useless, but inwhich the lips are compressed for curses, and the hands clenched andready to smite.I know nothing of Political Economy, or the theories oftrade. I havetried to write truthfully; and if my accounts agree or clash with anysystem, the agreement or disagreement is unintentional.To myself the idea which I have formed of the state of feeling amongtoo many ofthe factory-people in Manchester, and which I endeavouredto represent in this tale (completed above a year ago), has receivedsome confirmation from the events which have so recently occurredamong a similar classon the Continent.OCTOBER, 1848.CHAPTER I.A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.   Oh! 'tis hard, 'tis hard to be working     The whole of the live-long day,   When all the neighbours about one     Are off to their jaunts andplay.   There's Richard he carries his baby,     And Mary takes little Jane,   And lovingly they'll be wandering     Through field and briery lane.   MANCHESTER SONG.There are some fields near Manchester, well known tothe inhabitantsas "Green Heys Fields," through which runs a public footpath to alittle village about two miles distant. In spite of these fieldsbeing flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great andusualrecommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm aboutthem which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district,who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these common-place butthoroughly ruralfields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing townhe left but half-an-hour ago. Here and there an old black and whitefarm-house, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times andother occupations than thosewhich now absorb the population of theneighbourhood. Here in their seasons may be seen the country businessof hay-making, ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteriesfor townspeople to watch; and here theartisan, deafened with noiseof tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicioussounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milk-maids' call,the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old farm-yards. Youcannotwonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort atevery holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or Iproperly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it shouldbe, on suchoccasions, a crowded halting-place. Close by it is adeep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowytrees that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only place whereits banks are shelving is on the sidenext to a rambling farm-yard,belonging to one of those old-world, gabled, black and white housesI named above, overlooking the field through which the publicfootpath leads. The porch of this farm-house is covered byarose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with amedley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when thegarden was the only druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to growinscrambling and wild luxuriance--roses, lavender, sage, balm (fortea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in mostrepublican and indiscriminate order. This farm-house and garden arewithin ahundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading fromthe large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge ofhawthorn and black-thorn; and near this stile, on the further side,there runs a tale that primrosesmay often be found, and occasionallythe blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank.I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, ora holiday seized in right of Nature and her beautiful spring timebythe workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) thesefields were much thronged. It was an early May evening--the Aprilof the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, andthe round, soft,white clouds which were blown by a west wind overthe dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and morethreatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young greenleaves, which almost visiblyfluttered into life; and the willows,which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the waterbelow, were now of that tender gray-green which blends so delicatelywith the spring harmony of colours.Groups ofmerry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages mightrange from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They weremost of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress ofthat particular class ofmaidens; namely, a shawl, which at mid-dayor in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towardsevening, or if the day were chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantillaor Scotch plaid, and was brought overthe head and hung loosely down,or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion.Their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were belowthe average, with one or two exceptions; they had darkhair, neatlyand classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions andirregular features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was anacuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often beennoticed in amanufacturing population.There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling amongthese fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularlyready to enter into conversation with the girls, who,however, heldthemselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way,assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperouscompliments of the lads. Here and there came a sober quiet couple,eitherwhispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case mightbe; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant,carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally eventhree or four little toddlershad been carried or dragged thusfar, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious Mayafternoon together.Sometime in the course of that afternoon, two working men met withfriendly greeting at the stile sooften named. One was a thoroughspecimen of a Manchester man; born of factory workers, and himselfbred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. He wasbelow the middle size and slightly made; therewas almost a stuntedlook about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, thatin his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequentupon bad times and improvident habits. His features werestronglymarked, though not irregular, and their expression was extremeearnestness; resolute either for good or evil; a sort of latent,stern enthusiasm. At the time of which I write, the good predominatedover the bad inthe countenance, and he was one from whom a strangerwould have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it wouldbe granted. He was accompanied by his wife, who might, withoutexaggeration, have been called alovely woman, although now her facewas swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. Shehad the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhatof the deficiency of sense in her countenance, whichis likewisecharacteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with thenatives of the manufacturing towns. She was far advanced inpregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hystericalnature of hergrief. The friend whom they met was more handsome andless sensible-looking than the man I have just described; he seemedhearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there wasfar more of youth'sbuoyancy in his appearance. He was tenderlycarrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-lookingwoman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little,feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearanceof their mother.The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden lookof sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "Well, John, how goes it withyou?" and, in a lower voice, he added, "Any news of Esther,yet?"Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft andplaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth onlyfresh sobs from Mrs. Barton."Come, women," said John Barton, "you've bothwalked far enough. MyMary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, Mrs.Wilson, you know you're but a cranky sort of a body at the best oftimes." This was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken."Sityou down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; and you'reneither of you nesh [1] folk about taking cold. Stay," he added, withsome tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief to spread underyou, to savethe gowns women always think so much of; and now, Mrs.Wilson, give me the baby, I may as well carry him, while you talk andcomfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadly about Esther."   [Footnote 1: "Nesh;"Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender.]These arrangements were soon completed: the two women sat down on theblue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter, eachcarrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but assoon as Bartonhad turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back into anexpression of gloom."Then you've heard nothing of Esther, poor lass?" asked Wilson."No, nor shan't, as I take it. My mind is, she's goneoff withsomebody. My wife frets, and thinks she's drowned herself, butI tell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes to drownthemselves; and Mrs. Bradshaw (where she lodged, you know) says thelast time sheset eyes on her was last Tuesday, when she came downstairs, dressed in her Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in herbonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond ofthinking herself.""She was aspretty a creature as ever the sun shone on.""Ay, she was a farrantly [2] lass; more's the pity now," added Barton,with a sigh. "You see them Buckinghamshire people as comes to workin Manchester, has quite adifferent look with them to us Manchesterfolk. You'll not see among the Manchester wenches such fresh rosycheeks, or such black lashes to gray eyes (making them look likeblack), as my wife and Esther had. I neverseed two such pretty womenfor sisters; never. Not but what beauty is a sad snare. Here wasEsther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. Her spirit wasalways up, if I spoke ever so little in the way of advice toher; mywife spoiled her, it is true, for you see she was so much older thanEsther she was more like a mother to her, doing every thing for her."   [Footnote 2: "Farrantly," comely, pleasant-looking.]"I wonder she everleft you," observed his friend."That's the worst of factory work, for girls. They can earn so muchwhen work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves any how. MyMary shall never work in a factory, that I'mdetermined on. You seeEsther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face;and got to come home so late at night, that at last I told her mymind: my missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, forIloved Esther, if it was only for Mary's sake. Says I, 'Esther, I seewhat you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils,and stopping out when honest women are in their beds; you'll be astreet-walker, Esther,and then, don't you go to think I'll have youdarken my door, though my wife is your sister.' So says she, 'Don'ttrouble yourself, John. I'll pack up and be off now, for I'll neverstay to hear myself called as you call me.'She flushed up like aturkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out of her eyes; but whenshe saw Mary cry (for Mary can't abide words in a house), she wentand kissed her, and said she was not so bad as I thoughther. So wetalked more friendly, for, as I said, I liked the lass well enough,and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. But she said (and at thetime I thought there was sense in what she said) we should be muchbetterfriends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us nowand then.""Then you still were friendly. Folks said you'd cast her off, andsaid you'd never speak to her again.""Folks always make one a deal worse than oneis," said John Barton,testily. "She came many a time to our house after she left off livingwith us. Last Sunday se'nnight--no! it was this very last Sunday, shecame to drink a cup of tea with Mary; and that was the lasttime weset eyes on her.""Was she any ways different in her manner?" asked Wilson."Well, I don't know. I have thought several times since, that she wasa bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and moreblushing,and not so riotous and noisy. She comes in, toward four o'clock,when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnetup on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us.Iremember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a lowstool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor way.She laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and gently, likea child, that I couldn'tfind in my heart to scold her, especiallyas Mary was fretting already. One thing I do remember I did say, andpretty sharply too. She took our little Mary by the waist, and--""Thou must leave off calling her 'little' Mary,she's growing up intoas fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her mother'sstock than thine," interrupted Wilson."Well, well, I call her 'little,' because her mother's name is Mary.But, as I was saying, shetakes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and,'Mary,' says she, 'what should you think if I sent for you some dayand made a lady of you?' So I could not stand such talk as that to mygirl, and I said, 'Thou'd best not put thatnonsense i' the girl'shead I can tell thee; I'd rather see her earning her bread by thesweat of her brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, thoughshe never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothinglady,worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny allafternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to anyone of God's creatures but herself.'""Thou never could abide the gentlefolk," saidWilson, half amused athis friend's vehemence."And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?" askedBarton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and bursting forth, hecontinued, "If I am sick, do theycome and nurse me? If my child liesdying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for wantof better food than I could give him), does the rich man bring thewine or broth that might save his life? If I am outof work for weeksin the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen eastwind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed,and the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does therichman share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religionwasn't a humbug? When I lie on my death-bed, and Mary (bless her)stands fretting, as I know she will fret," and here his voicefaltered a little, "will arich lady come and take her to her ownhome if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do?No, I tell you, it's the poor, and the poor only, as does such thingsfor the poor. Don't think to come over me withth' old tale, that therich know nothing of the trials of the poor. I say, if they don'tknow, they ought to know. We're their slaves as long as we can work;we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows; and yet weareto live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate asDives and Lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us: but I know who wasbest off then," and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle thathad no mirthin it."Well, neighbour," said Wilson, "all that may be very true, but whatI want to know now is about Esther--when did you last hear of her?""Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way,kissing both