ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Sea-Wolf, by Jack LondonThis 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: The Sea-WolfAuthor: Jack LondonRelease Date: December 24, 2010  [eBook #1074]First released: October 15,1997Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SEA-WOLF***Transcribed from the 1917 William Heinemann edition by David Price,emailccx074@pglaf.org                               THE SEA-WOLF                                    BY                               JACK LONDON                                AUTHOR OF               âTHE CALL OF THE WILD,â âTHEFAITH OF MEN,â                                   ETC.                                * * * * *                            _POPULAR EDITION_.                                * * * * *                                  LONDON                            WILLIAMHEINEMANN                                   1917                                * * * * *_First published_, _November_ 1904._New Impression_, _December_ 1904, _April_ 1908._Popular Edition_, _July_ 1910; _New Impressions_,_March_ 1912,_September_ 1912, _November_ 1913, _May_ 1915, _May_ 1916, _July_ 1917.                                * * * * *             _Copyright_, _London_, _William Heinemann_, 1904CHAPTER II scarcely knowwhere to begin, though I sometimes facetiously place thecause of it all to Charley Furusethâs credit.  He kept a summer cottagein Mill Valley, under the shadow of Mount Tamalpais, and never occupiedit exceptwhen he loafed through the winter months and read Nietzsche andSchopenhauer to rest his brain.  When summer came on, he elected to sweatout a hot and dusty existence in the city and to toil incessantly.  Hadit notbeen my custom to run up to see him every Saturday afternoon andto stop over till Monday morning, this particular January Monday morningwould not have found me afloat on San Francisco Bay.Not but that I wasafloat in a safe craft, for the _Martinez_ was a newferry-steamer, making her fourth or fifth trip on the run betweenSausalito and San Francisco.  The danger lay in the heavy fog whichblanketed the bay, and of which,as a landsman, I had littleapprehension.  In fact, I remember the placid exaltation with which Itook up my position on the forward upper deck, directly beneath thepilot-house, and allowed the mystery of the fog to layhold of myimagination.  A fresh breeze was blowing, and for a time I was alone inthe moist obscurityâyet not alone, for I was dimly conscious of thepresence of the pilot, and of what I took to be the captain, in theglasshouse above my head.I remember thinking how comfortable it was, this division of labour whichmade it unnecessary for me to study fogs, winds, tides, and navigation,in order to visit my friend who lived across anarm of the sea.  It wasgood that men should be specialists, I mused.  The peculiar knowledge ofthe pilot and captain sufficed for many thousands of people who knew nomore of the sea and navigation than I knew.  Onthe other hand, insteadof having to devote my energy to the learning of a multitude of things, Iconcentrated it upon a few particular things, such as, for instance, theanalysis of Poeâs place in Americanliteratureâan essay of mine, by theway, in the current _Atlantic_.  Coming aboard, as I passed through thecabin, I had noticed with greedy eyes a stout gentleman reading the_Atlantic_, which was open at my veryessay.  And there it was again, thedivision of labour, the special knowledge of the pilot and captain whichpermitted the stout gentleman to read my special knowledge on Poe whilethey carried him safely from Sausalitoto San Francisco.A red-faced man, slamming the cabin door behind him and stumping out onthe deck, interrupted my reflections, though I made a mental note of thetopic for use in a projected essay which I hadthought of calling âTheNecessity for Freedom: A Plea for the Artist.â  The red-faced man shot aglance up at the pilot-house, gazed around at the fog, stumped across thedeck and back (he evidently had artificiallegs), and stood still by myside, legs wide apart, and with an expression of keen enjoyment on hisface.  I was not wrong when I decided that his days had been spent on thesea.âItâs nasty weather like this herethat turns heads grey before theirtime,â he said, with a nod toward the pilot-house.âI had not thought there was any particular strain,â I answered.  âItseems as simple as A, B, C.  They know thedirection by compass, thedistance, and the speed.  I should not call it anything more thanmathematical certainty.ââStrain!â he snorted.  âSimple as A, B, C!  Mathematical certainty!âHe seemed tobrace himself up and lean backward against the air as hestared at me.  âHow about this here tide thatâs rushinâ out through theGolden Gate?â he demanded, or bellowed, rather.  âHow fast is sheebbinâ?Whatâs the drift, eh?  Listen to that, will you?  A bell-buoy, and weârea-top of it!  See âem alterinâ the course!âFrom out of the fog came the mournful tolling of a bell, and I could seethepilot turning the wheel with great rapidity.  The bell, which hadseemed straight ahead, was now sounding from the side.  Our own whistlewas blowing hoarsely, and from time to time the sound of other whistlescame tous from out of the fog.âThatâs a ferry-boat of some sort,â the new-comer said, indicating awhistle off to the right.  âAnd there!  Dâye hear that?  Blown by mouth.Some scow schooner, mostlikely.  Better watch out, Mr. Schooner-man.Ah, I thought so.  Now hellâs a poppinâ for somebody!âThe unseen ferry-boat was blowing blast after blast, and the mouth-blownhorn was tooting interror-stricken fashion.âAnd now theyâre payinâ their respects to each other and tryinâ to getclear,â the red-faced man went on, as the hurried whistling ceased.His face was shining, his eyesflashing with excitement as he translatedinto articulate language the speech of the horns and sirens.  âThatâs asteam-siren a-goinâ it over there to the left.  And you hear that fellowwith a frog in histhroatâa steam schooner as near as I can judge,crawlinâ in from the Heads against the tide.âA shrill little whistle, piping as if gone mad, came from directly aheadand from very near at hand.  Gongssounded on the _Martinez_.  Ourpaddle-wheels stopped, their pulsing beat died away, and then theystarted again.  The shrill little whistle, like the chirping of a cricketamid the cries of great beasts, shot through the fogfrom more to theside and swiftly grew faint and fainter.  I looked to my companion forenlightenment.âOne of them dare-devil launches,â he said.  âI almost wish weâd sunkhim, the littlerip!  Theyâre the cause of more trouble.  And what goodare they?  Any jackass gets aboard one and runs it from hell tobreakfast, blowinâ his whistle to beat the band and tellinâ the rest ofthe world to lookout for him, because heâs cominâ and canât look out forhimself!  Because heâs cominâ!  And youâve got to look out, too!  Rightof way!  Common decency!  They donât know the meaninâof it!âI felt quite amused at his unwarranted choler, and while he stumpedindignantly up and down I fell to dwelling upon the romance of the fog.And romantic it certainly wasâthe fog, like the grey shadow ofinfinitemystery, brooding over the whirling speck of earth; and men, mere motesof light and sparkle, cursed with an insane relish for work, riding theirsteeds of wood and steel through the heart of the mystery, gropingtheirway blindly through the Unseen, and clamouring and clanging in confidentspeech the while their hearts are heavy with incertitude and fear.The voice of my companion brought me back to myself with a laugh.  Itoohad been groping and floundering, the while I thought I rode clear-eyedthrough the mystery.âHello! somebody cominâ our way,â he was saying.  âAnd dâye hear that?Heâs cominâfast.  Walking right along.  Guess he donât hear us yet.Windâs in wrong direction.âThe fresh breeze was blowing right down upon us, and I could hear thewhistle plainly, off to one side and a littleahead.âFerry-boat?â I asked.He nodded, then added, âOr he wouldnât be keepinâ up such a clip.â  Hegave a short chuckle.  âTheyâre gettinâ anxious up there.âI glancedup.  The captain had thrust his head and shoulders out of thepilot-house, and was staring intently into the fog as though by sheerforce of will he could penetrate it.  His face was anxious, as was theface of mycompanion, who had stumped over to the rail and was gazingwith a like intentness in the direction of the invisible danger.Then everything happened, and with inconceivable rapidity.  The fogseemed to break away asthough split by a wedge, and the bow of asteamboat emerged, trailing fog-wreaths on either side like seaweed onthe snout of Leviathan.  I could see the pilot-house and a white-beardedman leaning partly out of it, onhis elbows.  He was clad in a blueuniform, and I remember noting how trim and quiet he was.  His quietness,under the circumstances, was terrible.  He accepted Destiny, marched handin hand with it, and coollymeasured the stroke.  As he leaned there, heran a calm and speculative eye over us, as though to determine theprecise point of the collision, and took no notice whatever when ourpilot, white with rage, shouted,âNow youâve done it!âOn looking back, I realize that the remark was too obvious to makerejoinder necessary.âGrab hold of something and hang on,â the red-faced man said to me.  Allhis blusterhad gone, and he seemed to have caught the contagion ofpreternatural calm.  âAnd listen to the women scream,â he saidgrimlyâalmost bitterly, I thought, as though he had been through theexperiencebefore.The vessels came together before I could follow his advice.  We must havebeen struck squarely amidships, for I saw nothing, the strange steamboathaving passed beyond my line of vision.  The _Martinez_heeled over,sharply, and there was a crashing and rending of timber.  I was thrownflat on the wet deck, and before I could scramble to my feet I heard thescream of the women.  This it was, I am certain,âthe mostindescribableof blood-curdling sounds,âthat threw me into a panic.  I remembered thelife-preservers stored in the cabin, but was met at the door and sweptbackward by a wild rush of men and women.  Whathappened in the next fewminutes I do not recollect, though I have a clear remembrance of pullingdown life-preservers from the overhead racks, while the red-faced manfastened them about the bodies of an hystericalgroup of women.  Thismemory is as distinct and sharp as that of any picture I have seen.  Itis a picture, and I can see it now,âthe jagged edges of the hole in theside of the cabin, through which the grey fog swirledand eddied; theempty upholstered seats, littered with all the evidences of suddenflight, such as packages, hand satchels, umbrellas, and wraps; the stoutgentleman who had been reading my essay, encased in cork andcanvas, themagazine still in his hand, and asking me with monotonous insistence if Ithought there was any danger; the red-faced man, stumping gallantlyaround on his artificial legs and buckling life-preservers on allcomers;and finally, the screaming bedlam of women.This it was, the screaming of the women, that most tried my nerves.  Itmust have tried, too, the nerves of the red-faced man, for I have anotherpicture which willnever fade from my mind.  The stout gentleman isstuffing the magazine into his overcoat pocket and looking on curiously.A tangled mass of women, with drawn, white faces and open mouths, isshrieking like a chorus oflost souls; and the red-faced man, his facenow purplish with wrath, and with arms extended overhead as in the act ofhurling thunderbolts, is shouting, âShut up!  Oh, shut up!âI remember the scene impelledme to sudden laughter, and in the nextinstant I realized I was becoming hysterical myself; for these were womenof my own kind, like my mother and sisters, with the fear of death uponthem and unwilling to die.  And Iremember that the sounds they madereminded me of the squealing of pigs under the knife of the butcher, andI was struck with horror at the vividness of the analogy.  These women,capable of the most sublimeemotions, of the tenderest sympathies, wereopen-mouthed and screaming.  They wanted to live, they were helpless,like rats in a trap, and they screamed.The horror of it drove me out on deck.  I was feeling sick andsqueamish,and sat down on a bench.  In a hazy way I saw and heard men rushing andshouting as they strove to lower the boats.  It was just as I had readdescriptions of such scenes in books.  The tacklesjammed.  Nothingworked.  One boat lowered away with the plugs out, filled with women andchildren and then with water, and capsized.  Another boat had beenlowered by one end, and still hung in the tackle by theother end, whereit had been abandoned.  Nothing was to be seen of the strange steamboatwhich had caused the disaster, though I heard men saying that she wouldundoubtedly send boats to our assistance.Idescended to the lower deck.  The _Martinez_ was sinking fast, for thewater was very near.  Numbers of the passengers were leaping overboard.Others, in the water, were clamouring to be taken aboard again.  Nooneheeded them.  A cry arose that we were sinking.  I was seized by theconsequent panic, and went over the side in a surge of bodies.  How Iwent over I do not know, though I did know, and instantly, why those inthewater were so desirous of getting back on the steamer.  The water wascoldâso cold that it was painful.  The pang, as I plunged into it, was asquick and sharp as that of fire.  It bit to the marrow.  It was like thegripof death.  I gasped with the anguish and shock of it, filling mylungs before the life-preserver popped me to the surface.  The taste ofthe salt was strong in my mouth, and I was strangling with the acridstuff in my throatand lungs.But it was the cold that was most distressing.  I felt that I couldsurvive but a few minutes.  People were struggling and floundering in thewater about me.  I could hear them crying out to one another.  AndIheard, also, the sound of oars.  Evidently the strange steamboat hadlowered its boats.  As the time went by I marvelled that I was stillalive.  I had no sensation whatever in my lower limbs, while a chillingnumbnesswas wrapping about my heart and creeping into it.  Small waves,with spiteful foaming crests, continually broke over me and into mymouth, sending me off into more strangling paroxysms.The noises grew indistinct,though I heard a final and despairing chorusof screams in the distance, and knew that the _Martinez_ had gone down.Later,âhow much later I have no knowledge,âI came to myself with a startof fear.  I wasalone.  I could hear no calls or criesâonly the sound ofthe waves, made weirdly hollow and reverberant by the fog.  A panic in acrowd, which partakes of a sort of community of interest, is not soterrible as a panicwhen one is by oneself; and such a panic I nowsuffered.  Whither was I drifting?  The red-faced man had said that thetide was ebbing through the Golden Gate.  Was I, then, being carried outto sea?  And thelife-preserver in which I floated?  Was it not liable togo to pieces at any moment?  I had heard of such things being made ofpaper and hollow rushes which quickly became saturated and lost allbuoyancy.  And I couldnot swim a stroke.  And I was alone, floating,apparently, in the midst of a grey primordial vastness.  I confess that amadness seized me, that I shrieked aloud as the women had shrieked, andbeat the water with mynumb hands.How long this lasted I have no conception, for a blankness intervened, ofwhich I remember no more than one remembers of troubled and painfulsleep.  When I aroused, it was as after centuries of time;and I saw,almost above me and emerging from the fog, the bow of a vessel, and threetriangular sails, each shrewdly lapping the other and filled with wind.Where the bow cut the water there was a great foaming andgurgling, and Iseemed directly in its path.  I tried to cry out, but was too exhausted.The bow plunged down, just missing me and sending a swash of water clearover my head.  Then the long, black side of the vesselbegan slippingpast, so near that I could have touched it with my hands.  I tried toreach it, in a mad resolve to claw into the wood with my nails, but myarms were heavy and lifeless.  Again I strove to call out, but madenosound.The stern of the vessel shot by, dropping, as it did so, into a hollowbetween the waves; and I caught a glimpse of a man standing at the wheel,and of another man who seemed to be doing little else thansmoke a cigar.I saw the smoke issuing from his lips as he slowly turned his head andglanced out over the water in my direction.  It was a careless,unpremeditated glance, one of those haphazard things men do whentheyhave no immediate call to do anything in particular, but act because theyare alive and must do something.But life and death were in that glance.  I could see the vessel beingswallowed up in the fog; I saw the backof the man at the wheel, and thehead of the other man turning, slowly turning, as his gaze struck thewater and casually lifted along it toward me.  His face wore an absentexpression, as of deep thought, and I becameafraid that if his eyes didlight upon me he would nevertheless not see me.  But his eyes did lightupon me, and looked squarely into mine; and he did see me, for he sprangto the wheel, thrusting the other man aside,and whirled it round andround, hand over hand, at the same time shouting orders of some sort.The vessel seemed to go off at a tangent to its former course and leaptalmost instantly from view into the fog.I felt myselfslipping into unconsciousness, and tried with all the powerof my will to fight above the suffocating blankness and darkness that wasrising around me.  A little later I heard the stroke of oars, growingnearer and nearer,and the calls of a man.  When he was very near I heardhim crying, in vexed fashion, âWhy in hell donât you sing out?â  Thismeant me, I thought, and then the blankness and darkness rose overme.CHAPTER III seemed swinging in a mighty rhythm through orbit vastness.  Sparklingpoints of light spluttered and shot past me.  They were stars, I knew,and flaring comets, that peopled my flight among thesuns.  As I reachedthe limit of my swing and prepared to rush back on the counter swing, agreat gong struck and thundered.  For an immeasurable period, lapped inthe rippling of placid centuries, I enjoyed andpondered my tremendousflight.But a change came over the face of the dream, for a dream I told myselfit must be.  My rhythm grew shorter and shorter.  I was jerked from swingto counter swing with irritating haste.  Icould scarcely catch mybreath, so fiercely was I impelled through the heavens.  The gongthundered more frequently and more furiously.  I grew to await it with anameless dread.  Then it seemed as though I were beingdragged overrasping sands, white and hot in the sun.  This gave place to a sense ofintolerable anguish.  My skin was scorching in the torment of fire.  Thegong clanged and knelled.  The sparkling points of light flashedpast mein an interminable stream, as though the whole sidereal system weredropping into the void.  I gasped, caught my breath painfully, and openedmy eyes.  Two men were kneeling beside me, working overme.  My mightyrhythm was the lift and forward plunge of a ship on the sea.  Theterrific gong was a frying-pan, hanging on the wall, that rattled andclattered with each leap of the ship.  The rasping, scorching sandswerea manâs hard hands chafing my naked chest.  I squirmed under the pain ofit, and half lifted my head.  My chest was raw and red, and I could seetiny blood globules starting through the torn and inflamedcuticle.âThatâll do, Yonson,â one of the men said.  âCarnât yer see youâvebloominâ well rubbed all the gentâs skin orf?âThe man addressed as Yonson, a man of the heavyScandinavian type, ceasedchafing me, and arose awkwardly to his feet.  The man who had spoken tohim was clearly a Cockney, with the clean lines and weakly pretty, almosteffeminate, face of the man who hasabsorbed the sound of Bow Bells withhis motherâs milk.  A draggled muslin cap on his head and a dirtygunny-sack about his slim hips proclaimed him cook of the decidedly dirtyshipâs galley in which I found


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                                     BURIED                                  Written by                                ChrisSparling                                                  FADE IN:          INT. UNKNOWN ROOM - NIGHT          Darkness. Silence. After a long beat, we hear movement,          confined and contained.          Wethen hear the sound of a man, PAUL CONROY, groaning,          making confused attempts at words. We hear his movement;          short, abrupt shifting, ending almost immediately with the          sound of his bodybanging against wood.          He screams, though it's clear from the sound that his mouth          is covered by something.          After attempting to sit up, he immediately bangs his head          against something. It'sterribly warm and his breaths are          labored.          He attempts to move to his left and right, only to find that          he is confined on those sides, as well. He frantically          shifts about, only to discover, by touch,that he is encased          in something.          Something is very wrong, and he doesn't need to see to know          that.          Finally, we see him, lit by the flame of the Zippo he holds          in his hands, which arebound together in front of him with          rope. A rolled-up, dirty rag is tied tightly around his          head, stretched across his mouth. Dried blood stains his          hair and forehead.                                   We see thathe is lying in an old fashioned, wooden coffin.          Nothing more than a few rotted-out planks of wood nailed          together. Realizing the same, Paul is struck by an          overwhelming, instant panic.          Withgreat difficulty, and while still holding the lit Zippo,          Paul removes the muzzle from his mouth.                          PAUL           What...? What is this?          His words become almost unintelligible as heflails about,          though fear is understood in his every utterance.          He screams aloud, but his voice is captured by thecoffin          walls.           2.                                                                            PAUL           Oh my God! Help me!! Help me!!          He kicks and slams his hands against the top and sides ofthe          coffin, all to no avail. His violent movements cause small          grains of sand to trickle in through the space between the          sides and top of the coffin, as well as a small gap that          exists between oneof the coffin's broken wooden planks.          Sweat cascades down the side of his neck, dripping from his          dampened brow. The heat inside the extremely close confines          of the coffin isstifling.                          PAUL (CONT'D)           Somebody help me! Please!!          Paul continues with his futile efforts to pry off the top of          the coffin. The sides, the top, the bottom -- all aretoo          thoroughly reinforced by the force of what surrounds the          coffin. Sand. It becomes clear to him that he is buried.          He tries his best to calm himself, though he has trouble          catching his breath.It takes him some time, but he          eventually achieves some semblance of calm.          Getting a good look at him for the first time, we see that          Paul is somewhere around 37 years old. Unshavenand          physically unremarkable, he embodies the blue-collar American          everyman.          He coughs. The minimal amount of oxygen in the coffin makes          it hard for him to breathe.          His eyes widen abit upon seeing an exposed, rusty nail. He          tries desperately to use the nail to cut through the old,          frayed ropes that bind his hands. Doing so is no easy task.          The incredibly tight quarters makes hisevery action nearly          impossible.          After a lengthy struggle, the rope snaps. Paul quickly frees          his hands. A small victory. Very small.          The heat is unbearable. Paul takes off hisbutton-down          shirt, leaving him in a T-shirt. His body battles against          the walls and the ceiling of the coffin with every move he          makes.          He tosses his button-down shirt down by his feet.His          undershirt is drenched through with sweat.          Still trying to calm himself, but having little success in          doing so, Paul looks around the coffin. His feet, though          only his body-length away, seemmiles from him.           3.                                                            He looks at the top of the coffin, and then back at his feet.          With great difficulty, he shifts his body so that his feet          are pressedagainst the top of the coffin. He attempts to          use his leg strength to push the top off of him, but it          doesn't move even a millimeter.          After several failed attempts, and with his legs exhausted,          Pauldrops his feet from the top of the coffin. He lay for a          moment in silence, followed by an outburst of crying.          Close to his head, on the corner of the floor, we see there's          another broken plank. A smallhole.          He closes his cigarette lighter, extinguishing the flame. In          total darkness, he continues to cry.                                                   PAUL (CONT'D)           What is this?          With his sobbingslowly subsiding, the coffin soon grows          eerily silent.          The sound of Paul's labored breaths are all we hear, softened          under the blanket of absolute darkness.          After a beat, the silence is interruptedby a subtle buzzing          sound. The muted sight of strange, blueish light flickers in          the coffin, by Paul's feet. He is extremely startled.          The buzzing continues, as does the minimal splashing of          light.It's coming from underneath his discarded button-down          shirt, down near his feet.          He lights the Zippo to get a better look.                                   Pulling the shirt away, he realizes that what he ishearing          and seeing is the vibrating ring and display features of an          older model cell phone.          He frantically reaches for it, though the coffin is far too          small for him to reposition himself soeasily.          To his dismay, the phone stops ringing. But, his efforts to          reach it continue. He uses his feet to search for the phone.          After some trouble finding it, he eventually locates it.          Clamping thephone together between his clasped feet, Paul          then painfully angles his body so that he can reach his feet          with his hands and grab it.          He is soon able to reach it. Immediately thereafter, he          flipsopen the phone and puts the receiver in front of him.           4.                                                            We see that there is a Text Message waiting for Paul on the          phone. However, Paul barelynotices.          The time on the phone reads 6:12pm. While the numbers and          display screen icons are familiar to Americans, all the words          are in Arabic.          What he does notices is that the phone barelyhas one bar of          signal strength. Worse yet, there is only half of the          battery life remaining.          He tries to remember the Safe Number he was given. With the          phone open and ready to be dialed, Paulstruggles to recall          the information.                          PAUL (CONT'D)           Come on, come on. What was it?                                   Getting only two digits into dialing the number, hecannot          remember much more and closes the phone.          He wedges the lit Zippo into sand, which is compacted against          a small hole in the wall of the coffin.          Paul reaches into his pants pocket,frantically searching for          something. He hastily removes a prescription pill bottle and          a small, metal flask. Both are not what he was looking for.          He then reaches to his back pocket and removes hiswallet.          It's empty. His license, his credit cards, his cash and,          most importantly at that very moment, a piece of paper with          the Safe Number written on it, are all missing.                          PAUL(CONT'D)           No. Where the hell is it? Son of           a...Come on!                                   He screams aloud again, hoping greatly that someone can hear          him. His frenzied maneuvering puts out the flameof the          Zippo.                          PAUL (CONT'D)           Help me! Please! Somebody help           me!          His words barely make it pass the coffin walls.          With the cell phone still in hand, andlaboring to reclaim          the breath he just expended, Paul turns to desperation. He          dials the international code of 001, and then dials 911.          A FEMALE 911 OPERATOR answers almostimmediately.           5.                                                                            FEMALE 911 OPERATOR           911, please hold.          The Female 911 Operator places Paul onhold.                          PAUL           No! Wait!          Paul accidentally bangs the cap of the Zippo against the          coffin wall, putting out the flame.          She quickly returns.                          FEMALE911 OPERATOR           911. What is your emergency?                          PAUL           Hello?                          FEMALE 911 OPERATOR           911. What's the problem, sir?          Paul is soincredibly panicked that he has trouble remaining          coherent. After a few sparks, the Zippo is re-lit.                          PAUL           I'm buried. You have to help me.           You have to help me, Ican't           breathe...                          FEMALE 911 OPERATOR                          SIR --                          PAUL           I'm buried in a coffin. Please           help me! Send someone tofind           me...                          FEMALE 911 OPERATOR           Sir...slow down. What is your           name?                          PAUL           Paul. Paul Conroy.                          FEMALE 911OPERATOR           Okay, Mister Conroy. Can you tell           me your location?                          PAUL           I don't know. I'm in a coffin. I           don't know where. I'm scared.           Please helpme.           6.                                                                            FEMALE 911 OPERATOR          You're in a coffin?                          PAUL          Yeah, it's, like, one of thoseold,          wooden ones.                          FEMALE 911 OPERATOR          Are you at a funeral home?                          PAUL          No. I don't know. No.                          FEMALE 911OPERATOR          How are calling me right now?                          PAUL          What?                          FEMALE 911 OPERATOR          If you're buried in a coffin, where          are you callingfrom?                          PAUL          A cell phone. There was an old          cell phone in the coffin.                          FEMALE 911 OPERATOR          You're calling from yourcell          phone?                          PAUL          Yes. No. It's not mine, but yes,          I'm calling from a cell phone.                          FEMALE 911 OPERATOR          There was a cell phone inthe          coffin when you climbed in?                          PAUL          I didn't climb in.                          FEMALE 911 OPERATOR          How did you end up in thecoffin,          sir?                          PAUL          I was put here.                          FEMALE 911 OPERATOR          In the coffin?                          PAUL          Yes. Please send


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Woggle-Bug Book, by L. Frank Baum,Illustrated by Ike MorganThis 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 the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Woggle-Bug BookAuthor: L. Frank BaumRelease Date: June 23, 2007  [eBook#21914]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOGGLE-BUG BOOK***E-text prepared by Michael Gray(Lost_Gamer@comcast.net)Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this      file which includes the original illustrations.      See 21914-h.htm or21914-h.zip:      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/9/1/21914/21914-h/21914-h.htm)      or      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/9/1/21914/21914-h.zip)THE WOGGLE-BUG BOOKbyL. FRANK BAUMPictures byIke MorganChicagoThe Reilly & Britton Co.1905Copyright1905byL. Frank BaumEvery Right ReservedThe Unique Adventures of the WOGGLE-BUGONE day Mr. H. M. Woggle-Bug, T. E., becoming separated fromhiscomrades who had accompanied him from the Land of Oz, and finding thattime hung heavy on his hands (he had four of them), decided to walkdown the Main street of the City and try to discover something orotherof interest.The initials "H. M." before his name meant "Highly Magnified," for thisWoggle-Bug was several thousand times bigger than any other woggle-bugyou ever saw. And the initials "T. E." after his namedmeant "ThoroughlyEducated"--and so he was, in the Land of Oz. But his education, beingapplied to a woggle-bug intellect, was not at all remarkable in thiscountry, where everything is quite different than Oz. YettheWoggle-Bug did not suspect this, and being, like so many other thoroughlyeducated persons, proud of his mental attainments, he marched along thestreet with an air of importance that made one wonder whatgreatthoughts were occupying his massive brain.Being about as big, in his magnified state, as a man, the Woggle-Bugtook care to clothe himself like a man; only, instead of choosing sobercolors for his garments, hedelighted in the most gorgeous reds andyellows and blues and greens; so that if you looked at him long thebrilliance of his clothing was liable to dazzle your eyes.I suppose the Waggle-Bug did not realize at all what aqueer appearancehe made. Being rather nervous, he seldom looked into a mirror; and asthe people he met avoided telling him he was unusual, he had falleninto the habit of considering himself merely an ordinarycitizen of thebig city wherein he resided.So the Woggle-Bug strutted proudly along the street, swinging a cane inone hand, flourishing a pink handkerchief in the other, fumbling hiswatch-fob with another, and feeling hisnecktie was straight withanother. Having four hands to use would prove rather puzzling to you orme, I imagine; but the Woggie-Bug was thoroughly accustomed to them.Presently he came to a very fine store with bigplate-glass windows,and standing in the center of the biggest window was a creature sobeautiful and radiant and altogether charming that the first glance ather nearly took his breath away. Her complexion was lovely,for it waswax; but the thing which really caught the Woggle-Bug's fancy was themarvelous dress she wore. Indeed, it was the latest (last year's) Parismodel, although the Woggle-Bug did not know that; and thedesigner musthave had a real woggly love for bright colors, for the gown was made ofred cloth covered with big checks which were so loud the fashion bookscalled them "Wagnerian Plaids."Never had our friend theWoggle-Bug seen such a beautiful gown before,and it afflicted him so strongly that he straightaway fell in love withthe entire outfit--even to the wax-complexioned lady herself! Verypolitely he tipped his to her; but shestared coldly back without inany way acknowledging the courtesy."Never mind," he thought; "'faint heart never won fair lady.' And I'mdetermined to win this kaliedoscope of beauty or perish in theattempt!" You willnotice that our insect had a way of using big wordsto express himself, which leads us to suspect that the school system inOz is the same they employ in Boston.As, with swelling heart, the Woggle-Bug feasted his eyesupon theenchanting vision, a small green tag that was attached to a button ofthe waist suddenly attracted his attention. Upon the tag was marked:"Price $7.93--GREATLY REDUCED.""Ah!" murmured the Woggle-Bug;"my darling is in greatly reducedcircumstances, and $7.93 will make her mine! Where, oh where, shall Ifind the seven ninety-three wherewith to liberate this divinity andmake her Mrs. Woggle-Bug?""Move on!" said agruff policeman, who came along swinging his club.And the Woggle-Bug obediently moved on, his brain working fast andfurious in the endeavor to think of a way to procure seven dollars andninety-three cents.You see,in the Land of Oz they use no money at all, so that when theWoggle-Bug arrived in America he did not possess a single penny. And noone had presented him with any money since."Yet there must be several ways toprocure money in this country," hereflected; "for otherwise everybody would be as penniless as I am. Buthow, I wonder, do they manage to get it?"Just then he came along a side street where a number of men wereatwork digging a long and deep ditch in which to lay a new sewer."Now these men," thought the Woggle-Bug, "must get money for shovelingall that earth, else they wouldn't do it. Here is my chance to win thecharmingvision of beauty in the shop window!"Seeking out the foreman, he asked for work, and the foreman agreed tohire him."How much do you pay these workmen?" asked the highly magnified one."Two dollars a day,"answered the foreman."Then," said the Woggle-Bug, "you must pay me four dollars a day; for Ihave four arms to their two, and can do double their work.""If that is so, I'll pay you four dollars," agreed the man.TheWoggle-Bug was delighted."In two days," he told himself, as he threw off his brilliant coat andplaced his hat upon it, and rolled up his sleeves; "in two days I canearn eight dollars--enough to purchase my greatlyreduced darling andbuy her seven cents worth of caramels besides."He seized two spades and began working so rapidly with his four armsthat the foreman said: "You must have been forewarned.""Why?" asked theInsect."Because there's a saying that to be forewarned is to be four-armed,"replied the other."That is nonsense," said the Woggle-Bug, digging with all his might;"for they call you the foreman, and yet I only see one ofyou.""Ha, ha!" laughed the man, and he was so proud of his new worker thathe went into the corner saloon to tell his friend the barkeeper what atreasure he had found.It was just after noon that the Woggle-Bug hiredas a ditch-digger inorder to win his heart's desire; so at noon on the second day he quitwork, and having received eight silver dollars he put on his coat andrushed away to the store that he might purchase his intendedbride.But, alas for the uncertainty of all our hopes! Just as the Woggle-Bugreached the door he saw a lady coming out of the store dressed inidentical checks with which he had fallen in love!At first he did not know whatto do or say, for the young lady'scomplexion was not wax--far from it. But a glance into the windowshowed him the wax lady now dressed in a plain black tailor-made suit,and at once he knew the wearer of theWagnerian plaids was his reallove, and not the stiff creature behind the glass."Beg pardon!" he exclaimed, stopping the young lady; "but you're mine.Here's the seven ninety-three, and seven cents for candy."But sheglanced at him in a haughty manner, and walked away with hernose slightly elevated.He followed. He could not do otherwise with those delightful checksshining before him like beacon-lights to urge him on.The younglady stepped into a car, which whirled away rapidly. For amoment he was nearly paralyzed at his loss; then he started after thecar as fast as he could go, and this was very fast indeed--he being awoggle-bug.Somebodycried: "Stop, thief!" and a policeman ran out to arrest him.But the Woggle-Bug used his four hands to push the officer aside, andthe astonished man went rolling into the gutter so recklessly that hisuniform bore marksof the encounter for many days.Still keeping an eye on the car, the Woggle-Bug rushed on. Hefrightened two dogs, upset a fat gentleman who was crossing the street,leaped over an automobile that shot in front of him,and finally ranplump into the car, which had abruptly stopped to let off a passenger.Breathing hard from his exertions, he jumped upon the rear platform ofthe car, only to see his charmer step off at the front andwalkmincingly up the steps of a house. Despite his fatigue, he flew afterher at once, crying out:"Stop, my variegated dear--stop! Don't you know you're mine?"But she slammed the door in his face, and he sat downupon the stepsand wiped his forehead with his pink handkerchief and fanned himselfwith his hat and tried to think what he should do next.Presently a very angry man came out of the house. He had a revolver inonehand and a carving-knife in the other."What do you mean by insulting my wife?" he demanded."Was that your wife?" asked the Woggle-Bug, in meek astonishment."Of course it is my wife," answered the man."Oh, Ididn't know," said the insect, rather humbled. "But I'll giveyou seven ninety-three for her. That's all she's worth, you know; for Isaw it marked on the tag."The man gave a roar of rage and jumped into the air with theintentionof falling on the Woggle-Bug and hurting him with the knife and pistol.But the Woggle-Bug was suddenly in a hurry, and didn't wait to bejumped on. Indeed, he ran so very fast that the man was content tolethim go, especially as the pistol wasn't loaded and the carving-knifewas as dull as such knives usually are.But his wife had conceived a great dislike for the Wagnerian checkcostume that had won for her theWoggle-Bug's admiration. "I'll neverwear it again!" she said to her husband, when he came in and told herthat the Woggle-Bug was gone."Then," he replied, "you'd better give it to Bridget; for she's beenbothering meabout her wages lately, and the present will keep herquite for a month longer."So she called Bridget and presented her with the dress, and thedelighted servant decided to wear it that night to MickeySchwartz'sball.Now the poor Woggle-Bug, finding his affection scorned, was feelingvery blue and unhappy that evening, When he walked out, dressed (amongother things) in a purple-striped shirt, with a yellow necktieandpea-green gloves, he looked a great deal more cheerful than he reallywas. He had put on another hat, for the Woggle-Bug had a superstitionthat to change his hat was to change his luck, and luck seemed tohaveoverlooked the fact that he was in existence.The hat may really have altered his fortunes, as the Insect shortly metIkey Swanson, who gave him a ticket to Mickey Schwartz's ball; forIkey's clean dickey had notcome home from the laundry, and so he couldnot go himself.The Woggle-Bug, thinking to distract his mind from his dreams of love,attended the hall, and the first thing he saw as he entered the roomwas Bridgetclothed in that same gorgeous gown of Wagnerian plaid thathad so fascinated his bugly heart.The dear Bridget had added to her charms by putting seven full-blownimitation roses and three second-hand ostrich-plumesin her red hair;so that her entire person glowed like a sunset in June.The Woggle-bug was enraptured; and, although the divine Bridget waswaltzing with Fritzie Casey, the Insect rushed to her side and, seizingher withall his four arms at once, cried out in his truly educatedBostonian way:"Oh, my superlative conglomeration of beauty! I have found you atlast!"Bridget uttered a shriek, and Fritzie Casey doubled two fists thatlooked liketombstones, and advanced upon the intruder.Still embracing the plaid costume with two arms, the Woggle-Bug tippedMr. Casey over with the other two. But Bridget made a bound and landedwith her broad heel, whichsupported 180 pounds, firmly upon theInsect's toes. He gave a yelp of pain and promptly released the lady,and a moment later he found himself flat upon the floor with a dozen ofthe dancers piled upon him--all ofwhom were pummeling each other withmuch pleasure and a firm conviction that the diversion had been plannedfor their special amusement.But the Woggle-Bug had the strength of many men, and when he floppedthebig wings that were concealed by the tails of his coat, thegentlemen resting upon him were scattered like autumn leaves in a gustof wind.The Insect stood up, rearranged his dress, and looked about him.Bridget had runaway and gone home, and the others were still fightingamongst themselves with exceeding cheerfulness. So the Woggle-Bugselected a hat which fit him (his own having been crushed out of shape)and walkedsorrowfully back to his lodgings."Evidently that was not a lucky hat I wore to the ball," he reflected;"but perhaps this one I now have will bring about a change in myfortunes."Bridget needed money; and as she hadworn her brilliant costume onceand allowed her friends to see how becoming it was, she carried it thenext morning to a second-hand dealer and sold it for three dollars incash.Scarcely had she left the shop when a ladyof Swedish extraction--awidow with four small children in her train--entered and asked to lookat a gown. The dealer showed her the one he had just bought fromBridget, and its gay coloring so pleased the widow thatshe immediatelypurchased it for $3.65."Ay tank ets a good deal money, by sure," she said to herself; "but dasleedle children mus' have new fadder to mak mind un tak care deremudder like, by yimminy! An' Ay tank noman look may way in das oledress I been wearing."She took the gown and the four children to her home, where she lost notime in trying on the costume, which fitted her as perfectly as aflour-sack does a peck ofpotatoes."Das _beau_--tiful!" she exclaimed, in rapture, as she tried to seeherself in a cracked mirror. "Ay go das very afternoon to valk in dapark, for das man-folks go crazy-like ven he sees may fine frocks!"Then shetook her green parasol and a hand-bag stuffed with papers (tomake it look prosperous and aristocratic) and sallied forth to thepark, followed by all her interesting flock.The men didn't fail to look at her, as you mayguess; but none lookedwith yearning until the Woggle-Bug, sauntering gloomily along a path,happened to raise his eyes and see before him his heart's delight thevery identical Wagnerian plaids which had filled him withsuchunbounded affection."Aha, my excruciatingly lovely creation!" he cried, running up andkneeling before the widow; "I have found you once again. Do not, I begof you, treat me with coldness!"For he had learnedfrom experience not to unduly startle his charmer attheir first moment of meeting; so he made a firm attempt to controlhimself, that the wearer of the checked gown might not scorn him.The widow had no greataffection for bugs, having wrestled with thespecies for many years; but this one was such a big-bug and sohandsomely dressed that she saw no harm in encouraging him--especiallyas the men she had sought tocaptivate were proving exceedingly shy."So you tank Ay I ban loavely?" she asked, with a coy glance at theInsect."I do! With all my heart I do!" protested the Woggle-Bug, placing allfour hands, one after another, overthat beating organ."Das mak plenty trouble by you. I don'd could be yours!" sighed thewidow, indeed regretting her admirer was not an ordinary man."Why not?" asked the Woggle-Bug. "I have still the sevenninety-three;and as that was the original price, and you are now slightly worn andsecond-handed, I do not see why I need despair of calling you my own."It is very queer, when we think of it, that the Woggle-Bug couldnotseparate the wearer of his lovely gown from the gown itself. Indeed, healways made love directly to the costume that had so enchanted him,without any regard whatsoever to the person inside it; and the onlywaywe can explain this remarkable fact is to recollect that the Woggle-Bugwas only a woggle-bug, and nothing more could be expected of him. Thewidow did not, of course, understand his speech in the least; butshegathered the fact that the Woggle-Bug had id money, so she sighed andhinted that she was very hungry, and that there was a good short-orderrestaurant just outside the park.The Woggle-Bug became thoughtful atthis. He hated to squander hismoney, which he had come to regard a sort of purchase price with whichto secure his divinity. But neither could he allow those darling checksto go hungry; so he said:"If you will come withme to the restaurant, I will gladly supply youwith food."The widow accepted the invitation at once, and the Woggle-Bug walkedproudly beside her, leading all of the four children at once with hisfour hands.Two such gaycostumes as those worn by the widow and the Woggle-Bug areseldom found together, and the restaurant man was so impressed by thesight that he demanded his money in advance.The four children, jabberingdelightedly in their broken English,clambered upon four stools, and the widow sat upon another. And theWoggle-Bug, who was not hungry (being engaged in feasting his eyes uponthe checks), laid down a silver dollaras a guarantee of good faith.It was wonderful to see so much pie and cake and bread-and-butter andpickles and dough-nuts and sandwiches disappear into the mouths of thefour innocents and their comparativelyinnocent mother. The Woggle-Bughad to add another quarter to the vanished dollar before the scorewas finally settled; and no sooner had the tribe trooped outrestaurant than they turned into the open portals of anIce-CreamParlor, where they all attacked huge stacks of pale ice-cream andconsumed several plates of lady-fingers and cream-puffs.Again the Woggle-Bug reluctantly abandoned a dollar; but the end wasnot yet. Thedear children wanted candy and nuts; and then they warnedpink lemonade; and then pop-corn and chewing-gum; and always theWoggle-Bug, after a glance at the entrancing costume, found himselfunable to resistpaying for the treat.It was nearly evening when the widow pleaded fatigue and asked to betaken home. For none of them was able to eat another morsel, and theWoggle-Bug wearied her with his protestations ofboundless admiration."Will you permit me to call upon you this evening?" asked the Insect,pleadingly, as he bade the wearer of the gown good-bye on herdoor-step."Sure like!" she replied, not caring to dismiss himharshly; and thehappy Woggle-Bug went home with a light heart, murmuring to himself:"At last the lovely plaids are to be my own! The new hat I found at theball has certainly brought me luck."I am glad our friend theWoggle-Bug had those few happy moments, for hewas destined to endure severe disappointments in the near future.That evening he carefully brushed his coat, put on a green satinnecktie and a purple embroideredwaist-coat, and walked briskly towardsthe house of the widow. But, alas! as he drew near to the dwelling amost horrible stench greeted his nostrils, a sense of great depressioncame over him, and upon pausing beforethe house his body began totremble and his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets.For the wily widow, wishing to escape her admirer, had sprinkled thedoor-step and the front walk with insect Exterminator, and not eventheWoggle-Bug's love for the enchanting checked gown could induce him tolinger longer in that vicinity.Sick and discouraged, he returned home, where his first act was tosmash the luckless hat and replace it withanother. But it was sometime before he recovered from the horrors of that near approach toextermination, and he passed a very wakeful and unhappy night, indeed.Meantime the widow had traded with a friend of hers(who had once beena wash-lady for General Funston) the Wagnerian costume for a crazyquilt and a corset that was nearly as good as new and a pair of silkstockings that were not mates. It was a good bargain for bothof them,and the wash-lady being colored--that is, she had a deep mahoganycomplexion--was delighted with her gorgeous gown and put it on the verynext morning when she went to deliver the wash to thebrick-layer'swife.Surely it must have been Fate that directed the Woggle-Bug's steps;for, as he walked disconsolately along, an intuition caused him toraise his eyes, and he saw just ahead of him his affinity--carryingalarge clothes-basket."Stop!" he called our, anxiously; "stop, my fair Grenadine, I imploreyou!"The colored lady cast one glance behind her and imagined that Satan hadat last arrived to claim her. For she had never


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Villette, by Charlotte BrontÃ«This 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.netTitle: VilletteAuthor: Charlotte BrontÃ«Posting Date: August 23, 2010 [EBook #9182]Release Date: October, 2005FirstPosted: September 12, 2003[Last updated: March 2, 2016]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VILLETTE ***Produced by Delphine Lettau, Charles Franks and DistributedProofreadersVILLETTE.BYCHARLOTTE BRONTÃ.CONTENTSCHAPTER       I.  BRETTON      II.  PAULINA     III.  THE PLAYMATES      IV.  MISS MARCHMONT       V.  TURNING A NEWLEAF      VI.  LONDON     VII.  VILLETTE    VIII.  MADAME BECK      IX.  ISIDORE       X.  DR. JOHN      XI.  THE PORTRESS'S CABINET     XII.  THE CASKET    XIII.  A SNEEZE OUT OF SEASON     XIV.  THEFÃTE      XV.  THE LONG VACATION     XVI.  AULD LANG SYNE    XVII.  LA TERRASSE   XVIII.  WE QUARREL     XIX.  THE CLEOPATRA      XX.  THE CONCERT     XXI.  REACTION    XXII.  THELETTER   XXIII.  VASHTI    XXIV.  M. DE BASSOMPIERRE     XXV.  THE LITTLE COUNTESS    XXVI.  A BURIAL   XXVII.  THE HÃTEL CRÃCY  XXVIII.  THE WATCHGUARD    XXIX.  MONSIEUR'S FÃTE     XXX.  M.PAUL    XXXI.  THE DRYAD   XXXII.  THE FIRST LETTER  XXXIII.  M. PAUL KEEPS HIS PROMISE   XXXIV.  MALEVOLA    XXXV.  FRATERNITY   XXXVI.  THE APPLE OF DISCORD  XXXVII.  SUNSHINEXXXVIII.  CLOUD   XXXIX.  OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE      XL.  THE HAPPY PAIR     XLI.  FAUBOURG CLOTILDE    XLII.  FINISVILLETTE.CHAPTER I.BRETTON.My godmother lived in a handsome house in the cleanand ancient town ofBretton. Her husband's family had been residents there for generations,and bore, indeed, the name of their birthplace--Bretton of Bretton:whether by coincidence, or because some remote ancestorhad been apersonage of sufficient importance to leave his name to hisneighbourhood, I know not.When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a year, and well Iliked the visit. The house and its inmates speciallysuited me. Thelarge peaceful rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear widewindows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine antique street,where Sundays and holidays seemed always to abide--so quiet wasitsatmosphere, so clean its pavement--these things pleased me well.One child in a household of grown people is usually made very much of,and in a quiet way I was a good deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton,who hadbeen left a widow, with one son, before I knew her; herhusband, a physician, having died while she was yet a young andhandsome woman.She was not young, as I remember her, but she was still handsome,tall,well-made, and though dark for an Englishwoman, yet wearing always theclearness of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacity in a pairof fine, cheerful black eyes. People esteemed it a grievous pity thatshehad not conferred her complexion on her son, whose eyes wereblue--though, even in boyhood, very piercing--and the colour of hislong hair such as friends did not venture to specify, except as the sunshone on it, whenthey called it golden. He inherited the lines of hismother's features, however; also her good teeth, her stature (or thepromise of her stature, for he was not yet full-grown), and, what wasbetter, her health without flaw,and her spirits of that tone andequality which are better than a fortune to the possessor.In the autumn of the year ---- I was staying at Bretton; my godmotherhaving come in person to claim me of the kinsfolk withwhom was at thattime fixed my permanent residence. I believe she then plainly sawevents coming, whose very shadow I scarce guessed; yet of which thefaint suspicion sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and mademe gladto change scene and society.Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother's side; not withtumultuous swiftness, but blandly, like the gliding of a full riverthrough a plain. My visits to her resembled thesojourn of Christianand Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with "green trees on eachbank, and meadows beautified with lilies all the year round." The charmof variety there was not, nor the excitement ofincident; but I likedpeace so well, and sought stimulus so little, that when the latter cameI almost felt it a disturbance, and wished rather it had still heldaloof.One day a letter was received of which the contentsevidently causedMrs. Bretton surprise and some concern. I thought at first it was fromhome, and trembled, expecting I know not what disastrous communication:to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloudseemed to pass.The next day, on my return from a long walk, I found, as I entered mybedroom, an unexpected change. In, addition to my own French bed in itsshady recess, appeared in a corner a small crib, drapedwith white; andin addition to my mahogany chest of drawers, I saw a tiny rosewoodchest. I stood still, gazed, and considered."Of what are these things the signs and tokens?" I asked. The answerwas obvious. "Asecond guest is coming: Mrs. Bretton expects othervisitors."On descending to dinner, explanations ensued. A little girl, I wastold, would shortly be my companion: the daughter of a friend anddistant relation of the lateDr. Bretton's. This little girl, it wasadded, had recently lost her mother; though, indeed, Mrs. Bretton erelong subjoined, the loss was not so great as might at first appear.Mrs. Home (Home it seems was the name) hadbeen a very pretty, but agiddy, careless woman, who had neglected her child, and disappointedand disheartened her husband. So far from congenial had the unionproved, that separation at last ensued--separation bymutual consent,not after any legal process. Soon after this event, the lady havingover-exerted herself at a ball, caught cold, took a fever, and diedafter a very brief illness. Her husband, naturally a man of verysensitivefeelings, and shocked inexpressibly by too suddencommunication of the news, could hardly, it seems, now be persuaded butthat some over-severity on his part--some deficiency in patience andindulgence--hadcontributed to hasten her end. He had brooded over thisidea till his spirits were seriously affected; the medical men insistedon travelling being tried as a remedy, and meanwhile Mrs. Bretton hadoffered to take chargeof his little girl. "And I hope," added mygodmother in conclusion, "the child will not be like her mamma; assilly and frivolous a little flirt as ever sensible man was weak enoughto marry. For," said she, "Mr. Home _is_ asensible man in his way,though not very practical: he is fond of science, and lives half hislife in a laboratory trying experiments--a thing his butterfly wifecould neither comprehend nor endure; and indeed" confessedmygodmother, "I should not have liked it myself."In answer to a question of mine, she further informed me that her latehusband used to say, Mr. Home had derived this scientific turn from amaternal uncle, a Frenchsavant; for he came, it seems; of mixed Frenchand Scottish origin, and had connections now living in France, of whommore than one wrote _de_ before his name, and called himself noble.That same evening at nineo'clock, a servant was despatched to meet thecoach by which our little visitor was expected. Mrs. Bretton and I satalone in the drawing-room waiting her coming; John Graham Bretton beingabsent on a visit to one ofhis schoolfellows who lived in the country.My godmother read the evening paper while she waited; I sewed. It was awet night; the rain lashed the panes, and the wind sounded angry andrestless."Poor child!" said Mrs.Bretton from time to time. "What weather forher journey! I wish she were safe here."A little before ten the door-bell announced Warren's return. No soonerwas the door opened than I ran down into the hall; there lay atrunkand some band-boxes, beside them stood a person like a nurse-girl, andat the foot of the staircase was Warren with a shawled bundle in hisarms."Is that the child?" I asked."Yes, miss."I would have opened theshawl, and tried to get a peep at the face, butit was hastily turned from me to Warren's shoulder."Put me down, please," said a small voice when Warren opened thedrawing-room door, "and take off this shawl,"continued the speaker,extracting with its minute hand the pin, and with a sort of fastidioushaste doffing the clumsy wrapping. The creature which now appeared madea deft attempt to fold the shawl; but the draperywas much too heavyand large to be sustained or wielded by those hands and arms. "Give itto Harriet, please," was then the direction, "and she can put it away."This said, it turned and fixed its eyes on Mrs.Bretton."Come here, little dear," said that lady. "Come and let me see if youare cold and damp: come and let me warm you at the fire."The child advanced promptly. Relieved of her wrapping, she appearedexceedinglytiny; but was a neat, completely-fashioned little figure,light, slight, and straight. Seated on my godmother's ample lap, shelooked a mere doll; her neck, delicate as wax, her head of silky curls,increased, I thought, theresemblance.Mrs. Bretton talked in little fond phrases as she chafed the child'shands, arms, and feet; first she was considered with a wistful gaze,but soon a smile answered her. Mrs. Bretton was not generallyacaressing woman: even with her deeply-cherished son, her manner wasrarely sentimental, often the reverse; but when the small strangersmiled at her, she kissed it, asking, "What is my little one'sname?""Missy.""But besides Missy?""Polly, papa calls her.""Will Polly be content to live with me?""Not _always_; but till papa comes home. Papa is gone away." She shookher head expressively."He will return to Polly, orsend for her.""Will he, ma'am? Do you know he will?""I think so.""But Harriet thinks not: at least not for a long while. He is ill."Her eyes filled. She drew her hand from Mrs. Bretton's and made amovement to leave herlap; it was at first resisted, but shesaid--"Please, I wish to go: I can sit on a stool."She was allowed to slip down from the knee, and taking a footstool, shecarried it to a corner where the shade was deep, and thereseatedherself. Mrs. Bretton, though a commanding, and in grave matters even aperemptory woman, was often passive in trifles: she allowed the childher way. She said to me, "Take no notice at present." But I didtakenotice: I watched Polly rest her small elbow on her small knee, herhead on her hand; I observed her draw a square inch or two ofpocket-handkerchief from the doll-pocket of her doll-skirt, and then Iheard herweep. Other children in grief or pain cry aloud, withoutshame or restraint; but this being wept: the tiniest occasional snifftestified to her emotion. Mrs. Bretton did not hear it: which was quiteas well. Ere long, a voice,issuing from the corner, demanded--"May thebell be rung for Harriet!"I rang; the nurse was summoned and came."Harriet, I must be put to bed," said her little mistress. "You mustask where my bed is."Harriet signifiedthat she had already made that inquiry."Ask if you sleep with me, Harriet.""No, Missy," said the nurse: "you are to share this young lady's room,"designating me.Missy did not leave her seat, but I saw her eyes seek me.After someminutes' silent scrutiny, she emerged from her corner."I wish you, ma'am, good night," said she to Mrs. Bretton; but shepassed me mute."Good-night, Polly," I said."No need to say good-night, since we sleepin the same chamber," wasthe reply, with which she vanished from the drawing-room. We heardHarriet propose to carry her up-stairs. "No need," was again heranswer--"no need, no need:" and her small step toiledwearily up thestaircase.On going to bed an hour afterwards, I found her still wide awake. Shehad arranged her pillows so as to support her little person in asitting posture: her hands, placed one within the other, restedquietlyon the sheet, with an old-fashioned calm most unchildlike. I abstainedfrom speaking to her for some time, but just before extinguishing thelight, I recommended her to lie down."By and by," was the answer."Butyou will take cold, Missy."She took some tiny article of raiment from the chair at her crib side,and with it covered her shoulders. I suffered her to do as she pleased.Listening awhile in the darkness, I was aware that shestillwept,--wept under restraint, quietly and cautiously.On awaking with daylight, a trickling of water caught my ear. Behold!there she was risen and mounted on a stool near the washstand, withpains and difficultyinclining the ewer (which she could not lift) soas to pour its contents into the basin. It was curious to watch her asshe washed and dressed, so small, busy, and noiseless. Evidently shewas little accustomed to performher own toilet; and the buttons,strings, hooks and eyes, offered difficulties which she encounteredwith a perseverance good to witness. She folded her night-dress, shesmoothed the drapery of her couch quite neatly;withdrawing into acorner, where the sweep of the white curtain concealed her, she becamestill. I half rose, and advanced my head to see how she was occupied.On her knees, with her forehead bent on her hands, Iperceived that shewas praying.Her nurse tapped at the door. She started up."I am dressed, Harriet," said she; "I have dressed myself, but I do notfeel neat. Make me neat!""Why did you dress yourself, Missy?""Hush!speak low, Harriet, for fear of waking _the girl_" (meaning me,who now lay with my eyes shut). "I dressed myself to learn, against thetime you leave me.""Do you want me to go?""When you are cross, I have many atime wanted you to go, but not now.Tie my sash straight; make my hair smooth, please.""Your sash is straight enough. What a particular little body you are!""It must be tied again. Please to tie it.""There, then. When Iam gone you must get that young lady to dress you.""On no account.""Why? She is a very nice young lady. I hope you mean to behave prettilyto her, Missy, and not show your airs.""She shall dress me on noaccount.""Comical little thing!""You are not passing the comb straight through my hair, Harriet; theline will be crooked.""Ay, you are ill to please. Does that suit?""Pretty well. Where should I go now that I amdressed?""I will take you into the breakfast-room.""Come, then."They proceeded to the door. She stopped."Oh! Harriet, I wish this was papa's house! I don't know these people.""Be a good child, Missy.""I am good, butI ache here;" putting her hand to her heart, andmoaning while she reiterated, "Papa! papa!"I roused myself and started up, to check this scene while it was yetwithin bounds."Say good-morning to the young lady,"dictated Harriet. She said,"Good-morning," and then followed her nurse from the room. Harriettemporarily left that same day, to go to her own friends, who lived inthe neighbourhood.On descending, I found Paulina(the child called herself Polly, but herfull name was Paulina Mary) seated at the breakfast-table, by Mrs.Bretton's side; a mug of milk stood before her, a morsel of breadfilled her hand, which lay passive on thetable-cloth: she was noteating."How we shall conciliate this little creature," said Mrs. Bretton tome, "I don't know: she tastes nothing, and by her looks, she has notslept."I expressed my confidence in the effects of timeand kindness."If she were to take a fancy to anybody in the house, she would soonsettle; but not till then," replied Mrs. Bretton.CHAPTER II.PAULINA.Some days elapsed, and it appeared she was not likely to take muchof afancy to anybody in the house. She was not exactly naughty or wilful:she was far from disobedient; but an object less conducive tocomfort--to tranquillity even--than she presented, it was scarcelypossible to havebefore one's eyes. She moped: no grown person couldhave performed that uncheering business better; no furrowed face ofadult exile, longing for Europe at Europe's antipodes, ever bore morelegibly the signs of homesickness than did her infant visage. Sheseemed growing old and unearthly. I, Lucy Snowe, plead guiltless ofthat curse, an overheated and discursive imagination; but whenever,opening a room-door, I found her seatedin a corner alone, her head inher pigmy hand, that room seemed to me not inhabited, but haunted.And again, when of moonlight nights, on waking, I beheld her figure,white and conspicuous in its night-dress, kneelingupright in bed, andpraying like some Catholic or Methodist enthusiast--some precociousfanatic or untimely saint--I scarcely know what thoughts I had; butthey ran risk of being hardly more rational and healthy thanthatchild's mind must have been.I seldom caught a word of her prayers, for they were whispered low:sometimes, indeed, they were not whispered at all, but put upunuttered; such rare sentences as reached my ear stillbore the burden,"Papa; my dear papa!" This, I perceived, was a one-idea'd nature;betraying that monomaniac tendency I have ever thought the mostunfortunate with which man or woman can be cursed.What mighthave been the end of this fretting, had it continuedunchecked, can only be conjectured: it received, however, a sudden turn.One afternoon, Mrs. Bretton, coaxing her from her usual station in acorner, had lifted her intothe window-seat, and, by way of occupyingher attention, told her to watch the passengers and count how manyladies should go down the street in a given time. She had satlistlessly, hardly looking, and not counting,when--my eye being fixedon hers--I witnessed in its iris and pupil a startling transfiguration.These sudden, dangerous natures--_sensitive_ as they are called--offermany a curious spectacle to those whom a coolertemperament has securedfrom participation in their angular vagaries. The fixed and heavy gazeswum, trembled, then glittered in fire; the small, overcast browcleared; the trivial and dejected features lit up; the sadcountenancevanished, and in its place appeared a sudden eagerness, an intenseexpectancy. "It _is_!" were her words.Like a bird or a shaft, or any other swift thing, she was gone from theroom. How she got thehouse-door open I cannot tell; probably it mightbe ajar; perhaps Warren was in the way and obeyed her behest, whichwould be impetuous enough. I--watching calmly from the window--saw her,in her black frock andtiny braided apron (to pinafores she had anantipathy), dart half the length of the street; and, as I was on thepoint of turning, and quietly announcing to Mrs. Bretton that the childwas run out mad, and ought instantly tobe pursued, I saw her caughtup, and rapt at once from my cool observation, and from the wonderingstare of the passengers. A gentleman had done this good turn, and now,covering her with his cloak, advanced torestore her to the housewhence he had seen her issue.I concluded he would leave her in a servant's charge and withdraw; buthe entered: having tarried a little while below, he came up-stairs.His reception immediatelyexplained that he was known to Mrs. Bretton.She recognised him; she greeted him, and yet she was fluttered,surprised, taken unawares. Her look and manner were even expostulatory;and in reply to these, rather thanher words, he said,--"I could nothelp it, madam: I found it impossible to leave the country withoutseeing with my own eyes how she settled.""But you will unsettle her.""I hope not. And how is papa's little Polly?"Thisquestion he addressed to Paulina, as he sat down and placed hergently on the ground before him."How is Polly's papa?" was the reply, as she leaned on his knee, andgazed up into his face.It was not a noisy, not awordy scene: for that I was thankful; but itwas a scene of feeling too brimful, and which, because the cup did notfoam up high or furiously overflow, only oppressed one the more. On alloccasions of vehement,unrestrained expansion, a sense of disdain orridicule comes to the weary spectator's relief; whereas I have everfelt most burdensome that sort of sensibility which bends of its ownwill, a giant slave under the sway ofgood sense.Mr. Home was a stern-featured--perhaps I should rather say, ahard-featured man: his forehead was knotty, and his cheekbones weremarked and prominent. The character of his face was quite Scotch;butthere was feeling in his eye, and emotion in his now agitatedcountenance. His northern accent in speaking harmonised with hisphysiognomy. He was at once proud-looking and homely-looking. He laidhis hand on thechild's uplifted head. She said--"Kiss Polly."He kissed her. I wished she would utter some hysterical cry, so that Imight get relief and be at ease. She made wonderfully little noise: sheseemed to have got what shewanted--_all_ she wanted, and to be in atrance of content. Neither in mien nor in features was this creaturelike her sire, and yet she was of his strain: her mind had been filledfrom his, as the cup from the


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Search the Sky, by Frederik Pohl and C. M. KornbluthThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother parts of the world at no cost and with almost norestrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States,you'll haveto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.Title: Search the SkyAuthor: Frederik Pohl        C. M. KornbluthRelease Date: June 3, 2016 [EBook #52228]Language:EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEARCH THE SKY ***                  By Frederik Pohl and C. M. Kornbluth                         _THE SPACEMERCHANTS_                            _SEARCH THE SKY_------------------------------------------------------------------------                               SEARCHTHE                                  SKY                                   by                             Frederik Pohl                                  and                            C. M. Kornbluth                      BALLANTINE BOOKS Â· NEWYORK------------------------------------------------------------------------                          COPYRIGHT, 1954, BY                   FREDERIK POHL AND C. M. KORNBLUTH             LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUE CARDNO. 54-6478                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA                         BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC.                  404 Fifth Avenue, New York 18, N.Y.                  ------------------------------------                           TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE                   Extensive research did not uncover                  any evidence that the U.S. copyright                    on this publicationwas renewed.------------------------------------------------------------------------                               SEARCH THE                                  SKY..... 1DECAY.Ross stood on the tradersâ ramp, overlooking the Yards, andthe wordkept bobbing to the top of his mind.Decay.About all of Halseyâs Planet there was the imperceptible reek of decay.The clean, big, bustling, efficient spaceport only made the sensationstronger. From wherehe stood on the height of the Ramp, he could seethe Yards, the spires of Halsey City ten kilometers awayâand thetumble-down gray acres of Ghost Town between.Ross wrinkled his nose. He wasnât a man givento brooding, but the scentof decay had saturated his nostrils that morning. He had tossed andturned all the night, wrestling with a decision. And he had got upearly, so early that the only thing that made sense was towalk to work.And that meant walking through Ghost Town. He hadnât done that in a longtime, not since childhood. Ghost Town was a wonderful place to play.âTag,â âFollow My Fuehrer,ââSenators and Presidentââall the ancientgames took on new life when you could dodge and turn among crumblingruins, dart down unmarked lanes, gallop through sagging shacks where youmight stir out ascreeching, unexpected recluse.But it was clear thatâin the fifteen years between childhood games and atroubled manâs walk to workâGhost Town had grown.Everybody knew that! Ask the right specialists,and theyâd tell you howmuch and how fast. An acre a year, a street a month, a block a week, thespecialists would twinkle at you, convinced that the acre, street, blockwas under control, since they could measureit.Ask the right specialists and they would tell you why it was happening.One answer per specialist, with an ironclad guarantee that there wouldbe no overlapping of replies. âA purely psychological phenomenon,Mr.Ross. A vibration of the pendulum toward greater municipal compactness,a huddling, a mature recognition of the facts of interdependence,basically a step forward....ââA purely biological phenomenon, Mr.Ross. Falling birth rate due tobiochemical deficiency of trace elements processed out of our planetarydiet. Fortunately the situation has been recognized in time and my billbefore the Chamber will provide....ââApurely technological problem, Mr. Ross. Maintenance of a sprawlingcity is inevitably less efficient than that of a compact unit.Inevitably there has been a drift back to the central areas and theconvenience ofair-conditioned walkways, winterized plazas....âYes. It was a purely psychological-biological-technological-educational-demographic problem, and it was basically a step forward.Ross wondered how many GhostTowns lay corpselike on the surface ofHalseyâs Planet. Decay, he thought. Decay.But it had nothing to do with his problem, the problem that had kept himawake all the night, the problem that blighted the viewbefore him now.The trading bell clanged. The dayâs work began.For Ross it might be his last dayâs work at the Yards.                  *       *       *       *       *He walked slowly from the ramp to the offices of theOldham TradingCorporation. âMorning, Ross boy,â his breezy young boss greeted him.Charles Oldham IVâs father had always taken a paternal attitude towardhis help, and Charles Oldham IV was not goingto change anything thatDaddy had done. He shook Rossâs hand at the door of the suite andapologized because they hadnât been able to find a new secretary for himyet. Theyâd been looking for two weeks,but the three applicants theyhad been able to dredge up had all been hopeless. âItâs the damnChamber,â said Charles Oldham IV, winsomely gesturing with his hands toshow how helpless men of affairswere against the blunderinginterference of Government. âDamn labor shortage is nothing but a damnartificial scarcity crisis. Daddy saw it; he knew it was coming.âRoss almost told him he was quitting, but heldback. Maybe it wasbecause he didnât want to spoil Oldhamâs day with bad news, right on topof the opening bell. Or maybe it was because, in spite of a sleeplessnight, he still wasnât quite sure.Themorningâs work helped him to become sure. It was the same monotonousgrind.Three freighters had arrived at dawn from Halseyâs third moon, but noneof them was any affair of his. There was an exportshipment of jewelryand watches to be attended to, but the ship was not to take off foranother week. It scarcely classified as urgent. Ross worked on themanifests for a couple of hours, stared through his window for anhour,and then it was time for lunch.Little Marconi hailed him as he passed through the tradersâ lounge.Of all the juniors on the Exchange, Marconi was the one Ross foundeasiest to take. He was lean and dark whereRoss was solid and fair;worse, he stood four ranks above Ross in seniority. But, since Rossworked for Oldham, and Marconi worked for Haarlandâs, the differencecould be waived in social intercourse.Ross suspectedthat, to Marconi as to him, trading was only a jobâa dullone, and not a crusade. And he knew that Marconiâs reading was notconfined to bills of lading. âLunch?â asked Marconi. âSure,â Rosssaid.And he knew heâd probably spill his secret to the little man fromHaarlandâs.The skyroom was crowdedâcomparatively. All eight of the usual tableswere taken; they pushed on into the roped-off area bythe windows andfound a table overlooking the Yards. Marconi blew dust off his chair.âBeen a long time since this was used,â he grumbled. âDrink?â He raisedhis eyebrows when Ross nodded. It made abreak; Marconi was the oneusually who had a drink with lunch, Ross never touched it.When the drinks came, each of them said to the other in perfectsynchronism: âIâve got something to tell you.âTheylooked startledâthen laughed. âGo ahead,â said Ross.The little man didnât even argue. Rapturously he drew a photo out of hispocket.God, thought Ross wearily, Lurline again! He studied the picture withashow of interest. âNew snap?â he asked brightly. âLovely girlâââ Then henoticed the inscription: _To my fiance, with crates of love._ âWell!â hesaid, âFiance, is it? Congratulations,Marconi!âMarconi was almost drooling on the photo. âNext month,â he said happily.âA big, big wedding. For keeps, Rossâfor keeps. With children!âRoss made an expression of polite surprise.âYou donât say!â he said.âItâs all down in black and white! She agrees to have two children inthe first five yearsâno permissive clause, a straight guarantee. Fifteenhundred annual allowance perchild. And, Ross, do you know what? Herlawyer told her right in front of me that she ought to ask for threethousand, and she told him, âNo, Mr. Turek. I happen to be in love.â Howdo you like that,Ross?ââA girl in a million,â Ross said feebly. His private thoughts were thatMarconi had been gaffed and netted like a sugar perch. Lurline was ofthe Old Landowners, who didnât own anything much butland these days,and Marconi was an undersized nobody who happened to make a very goodliving. Sure she happened to be in love. Smartest thing she could be. Ofcourse, promising to have children sounded prettyspecial; but thepapers were full of those things every day. Marconi could reliably becounted on to hang himself. Heâd promise her breakfast in bed everythird week end, or the maid that he couldnât possibly findon the labormarket, and the courts would throw all the promises on both sides out ofthe contract as a matter of simple equity. But the marriage would stick,all right.Marconi had himself a final moist, fatuous sigh andreturned the phototo his pocket. âAnd now,â he asked brightly, craning his neck for thewaiter, âwhatâs your news?âRoss sipped his drink, staring out at the nuzzling freighters in theirhemisphericalslips. He said abruptly, âI might be on one of those nextweek. Fallonâs got a purserâs berth open.âMarconi forgot the waiter and gaped. âQuitting?ââIâve got to do something!â Rossexploded. His own voice scared him;there was a knife blade of hysteria in the sound of it. He gripped theedge of the table and forced himself to be calm and deliberate.Marconi said tardily, âEasy,Ross.ââEasy! Youâve said it, Marconi: âEasy.â Everythingâs so damned easy andso damned boring that Iâm just about ready to blow! Iâve got to dosomething,â he repeated.âIâm getting nowhere! I push papers around andthen I push them back again. You know what happens next. You get softand paunchy. You find yourself going by the book instead of by yourhead. Youârecovered, if you go by the bookâno matter what happens. Andyou might just as well be dead!ââNow, RossââââNow, hell!â Ross flared. âMarconi, I swear I think thereâssomethingwrong with me! Look, take Ghost Town for instance. Ever wonder whynobody lives there, except a couple of crazy old hermits?ââWhy, itâs Ghost Town,â Marconi explained. âItâsdeserted.ââAnd why is it deserted? What happened to the people who used to livethere?âMarconi shook his head. âYou need a vacation, son,â he saidsympathetically. âThat was a long time ago.Hundreds of years, maybe.ââBut where did the people go?â Ross persisted desperately. âAll of thecity was inhabited hundreds of years agoâthe city was twice as big as itis now. Howcome?âMarconi shrugged. âDunno.âRoss collapsed. âDonât know. You donât know, I donât know, nobody knows.Only thing is, I care! Iâm curious. Marconi, I getâwell,moody.Depressed. I get to worrying about crazy things. Ghost Town, for one.And why canât they find a secretary for me? And am I really differentfrom everybody else or do I just think soâand doesnât thatmean that Iâminsane?âHe laughed. Marconi said warmly, âRoss, you arenât the only one; donâtever think you are. I went through it myself. Found the answer, too. Youwait, Ross.âHe paused.Ross said suspiciously, âYeah?âMarconi tapped the breast pocket with the photo of Lurline. âSheâll comealong,â he said.Ross managed not to sneer in his face. âNo,â he said wearily.âLook, Idonât advertise it, but I was married once. I was eighteen, it lastedfor a year and Iâm the one who walked out. Flat-fee settlement; it tookme five years to pay off the loan, but I never regrettedit.âMarconi began gravely, âSexual incompatibilityâââRoss cut him off with an impatient gesture. âIn that department,â hesaid, âit so happens she was a genius.ButââââBut?âRoss shrugged. âI must have been crazy,â he said shortly. âI keptthinking that she was half-dead, dying on the vine like the rest ofHalseyâs Planet. And I must still becrazy, because I still think so.âThe little man involuntarily felt his breast pocket. He said gently,âMaybe youâve been working too hard.ââToo hard!â Ross laughed, a curious blend of true humorandself-disgust. âWell,â he admitted, âI need a change, anyhow. I might aswell be on a longliner. At least Iâd have my spree to look back on.ââNo!â Marconi said, so violently that Rossslopped the drink he waslifting to his mouth.Ross looked hard at the little manâhard and speculatively. âNo, then,âhe said. âIt was just a figure of speech, of course. But tell mesomething, wonâtyou, Marconi?ââTell you what?ââTell me why such a violent reaction to the word âlongliner.â I want toknow.ââHell, Ross,â the little man grumbled, âyou know what a longlineris.Gutter-scrapings for crews; nothing for a man like you.ââI want to know more,â Ross insisted. âWhen I ask you what a longlineris, what the crew do with themselves for two or three centuries,youchange the subject. You always change the subject! Maybe you knowsomething I donât know. I want to know what it is, and this time thesubject doesnât get changed. You donât get off the hook until Ifindout.â He took a sip of his drink and leaned back. âTell me aboutlongliners,â he said. âIâve never seen one coming in; itâs been fifteenyears or so since that bucket from Sirius IV, hasnâtit? But you were onthe job then.âMarconi was no longer a man in love or one of the few people whom Rossconsidered to be wholly aliveâlike him. He was a hard-eyed littlestranger with a stubborn mouth and aningratiating veneer. In short hewas again a trader, and a good one.âIâll tell you anything I know,â Marconi declared positively, andinsincerely. âTend to that fellow first though, will you?â He pointedtoa uniformed Yards messenger whose eye had just alighted on Ross. The manthreaded his way, stumbling, through the tables and laid a sealedenvelope down in the puddle left by Rossâs drink.âSorry, sir,âhe said crisply, wiped off the envelope with hishandkerchief and, for lagniappe, wiped the puddle off the table intoRossâs lap.Speechless, Ross signed for the envelope on a red-tabbed slip markedURGENT *PRIORITY * RUSH. The messenger saluted, almost putting his owneye out, and left, crashing into tables and chairs.âHalf-dead,â Ross muttered, following him with his eyes. âHow the devildo they stay aliveat all?âMarconi said, unsmiling, âYouâre taking this kick pretty seriously,Ross. I admit heâs a little clumsy, butââââBut nothing,â said Ross. âDonât try to tell me youdonât knowsomethingâs wrong, Marconi! Heâs a bumbling incompetent, and half hisgeneration is just like him.â He looked bitterly at the envelope anddropped it on the table again. âMoremanifests,â he said. âI swear Iâllstart throwing tableware if I have to check another bill of lading.Brighten my day, Marconi; tell me about the longliners. Youâre not offthe hook yet, youknow.âMarconi signaled for another drink. âAll right,â he said. âMarconi tellsall about longliners. Theyâre ships. They go from the planet of one starto the planet of another star. It takes a long time,because stars aremany light-years apart and rocket ships cannot travel as fast as light.Einstein said soâwhoever he was. Do we start with the Sirius IV ship? Iwas around when it came in, all right. Fifteen years ago,and HalseyâsPlanet is still enjoying the benefits of it. And so is Leverett and SonsTrading Corporation. They did fine on flowers from seeds that bucketbrought, they did fine on sugar perch from eggs that bucketbrought.Iâve never had it myself. Raw fish for dessert! But some people swear byitâat five shields a portion. They can have it.ââThe hook, Marconi,â Ross reminded grimly.Trader Marconi laughedamiably. âSorry. Well, what else? Pictures andmusic, but Iâm not much on them. I do read, though, and as a reader Isay, God bless that bucket from Sirius IV. We never had a novelist likeMorris Halliday on thisplanetâor an essayist like Jay Waring. Letâssee, there have been eight Halliday novels off the microfilms so far,and I think Leverett still has a couple in the vaults. Leverett mustbeââââMarconi. Idonât want to hear about Leverett and Sons. Or MorrisHalliday, or Waring. I want to hear about longliners.ââIâm trying to tell you,â Marconi said sullenly, the mask down.âNo, youâre not.Youâre telling me that the longline ships go from onestellar system to another with merchandise. I know that.ââThen what do you want?ââDonât be difficult, Marconi. I want to know the facts. Allaboutlongliners. The big hush-hush. The candid explanations that explainnothingâexcept that a starship is a starship. I know that theyâreclosed-system, multigeneration jobs; a group of people get in on SiriusIVand their great-great-great-great-grandchildren come giggling andstumbling out on Halseyâs Planet. I know that every couple ofgenerations your firmâand mine, for that matterâbuilds one with profitsthatwould be taxed off anyway and slings it out, stocked with seeds andfilm and sound tape and patent designs and manufacturing specificationsfor every new gimmick on the market, in the hope that itâll be backlongafter weâre dead with a similar cargo to enrich your firmâs and myfirmâs then-current owners. Sounds sillyâbut, as I say, itâs tax moneyanyhow. I know that your firm and mine staff the shipswith half a dozenbums of each sex, who are loaded aboard with a dandy case of deliriumtremens, contracted from spending their bounty money the only way theyknow how. And thatâs just about all I know. Take itfrom there, Marconi.And be specific.âThe little man shrugged irritably. âThat gagâs beginning to wear thin,Ross,â he complained. âWhat do you want me to tell youâthe number ofwelds inBulkhead 47 of âStarship 74â? Whatâs the difference? As yousaid, a starship is a starship is a longliner. Without them theinhabited solar systems would have no means of contact or commerce. Whatelse isthere to say?âRoss looked suddenly lost. âIâdonât know,â he said. âDonât you know,Marconi?âMarconi hesitated, and for a moment Ross was sure he did knowâknewsomething, atany rate, something that might be an answer to the doubtsand nagging inconsistencies that were bothering him. But then Marconishrugged and looked at his watch and ordered another drink.But there was somethingwrong. Ross felt himself in the position of adiagnostician whose patient willfully refuses to tell where it hurts.The planet was sickâbut wouldnât admit it. Sick? Dying! Maybe he was onthe wrong track entirely.Maybe the starships had nothing to do with it.Maybe there was nothing that Marconi knew that would fit a piece intothe puzzle and make the answer come out all clearâbut Ghost Towncontinued to grow acre byacre, year by year. And Oldham still hadnâtfound him a secretary capable of writing her own name.âAccording to the historians, everything fits nicely into place,â Rosssaid, dubiously. âThey say we camehere ourselves in longliners once,Marconi. Our ancestors under some man named Halsey colonized this place,fourteen hundred years ago. According to the longliners that come infrom other stars, their ancestorscolonized wherever they came from instarships from a place called Earth. Where is this Earth, Marconi?âMarconi said succinctly, âLook in the star charts. Itâs there.ââYes,