ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Coming Attraction, by Fritz LeiberThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother parts of theworld at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg License includedwith 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 locatedbefore using this ebook.Title: Coming AttractionAuthor: Fritz LeiberRelease Date: January 30, 2016 [EBook #51082]Language: English*** START OF THISPROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMING ATTRACTION ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team athttp://www.pgdp.net                           Coming Attraction                            BY FRITZ LEIBER                       Illustrated by Paul Calle           [Transcriber's Note:This etext was produced from                 Galaxy Science Fiction November 1950.         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that         the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]           Women will always go on trying to attract men ...             even when the future seems to have no future!Thecoupe with the fishhooks welded to the fender shouldered up overthe curb like the nose of a nightmare. The girl in its path stoodfrozen, her face probably stiffwith fright under her mask. For once myreflexes weren't shy. I took a fast step toward her, grabbed her elbow,yanked her back. Her black skirt swirled out.Thebig coupe shot by, its turbine humming. I glimpsed three faces.Something ripped. I felt the hot exhaust on my ankles as the bigcoupe swerved back into thestreet. A thick cloud like a black flowerblossomed from its jouncing rear end, while from the fishhooks flew ablack shimmering rag."Did they get you?" I asked thegirl.She had twisted around to look where the side of her skirt was tornaway. She was wearing nylon tights."The hooks didn't touch me," she said shakily. "Iguess I'm lucky."I heard voices around us:"Those kids! What'll they think up next?""They're a menace. They ought to be arrested."Sirens screamed at a risingpitch as two motor-police, theirrocket-assist jets full on, came whizzing toward us after the coupe.But the black flower had become a thick fog obscuring thewhole street.The motor-police switched from rocket assists to rocket brakes andswerved to a stop near the smoke cloud."Are you English?" the girl asked me."You have an English accent."Her voice came shudderingly from behind the sleek black satin mask.I fancied her teeth must be chattering. Eyes that were perhapsbluesearched my face from behind the black gauze covering the eyeholes ofthe mask. I told her she'd guessed right. She stood close to me. "Willyou come to myplace tonight?" she asked rapidly. "I can't thank younow. And there's something you can help me about."My arm, still lightly circling her waist, felt her bodytrembling. Iwas answering the plea in that as much as in her voice when I said,"Certainly." She gave me an address south of Inferno, an apartmentnumber and atime. She asked me my name and I told her."Hey, you!"I turned obediently to the policeman's shout. He shooed away the smallclucking crowd of masked womenand barefaced men. Coughing from thesmoke that the black coupe had thrown out, he asked for my papers. Ihanded him the essentialones.       *       *       *       *       *He looked at them and then at me. "British Barter? How long will you bein New York?"Suppressing the urge to say, "For asshort a time as possible," I toldhim I'd be here for a week or so."May need you as a witness," he explained. "Those kids can't use smokeon us. When they do that,we pull them in."He seemed to think the smoke was the bad thing. "They tried to kill thelady," I pointed out.He shook his head wisely. "They always pretendthey're going to, butactually they just want to snag skirts. I've picked up rippers withas many as fifty skirt-snags tacked up in their rooms. Of course,sometimesthey come a little too close."I explained that if I hadn't yanked her out of the way, she'd have beenhit by more than hooks. But he interrupted, "If she'd thought itwas areal murder attempt, she'd have stayed here."I looked around. It was true. She was gone."She was fearfully frightened," I told him."Who wouldn't be?Those kids would have scared old Stalin himself.""I mean frightened of more than 'kids.' They didn't look like 'kids.'""What did they look like?"I tried without muchsuccess to describe the three faces. A vagueimpression of viciousness and effeminacy doesn't mean much."Well, I could be wrong," he said finally. "Do you knowthe girl? Whereshe lives?""No," I half lied.The other policeman hung up his radiophone and ambled toward us,kicking at the tendrils of dissipating smoke. Theblack cloud no longerhid the dingy facades with their five-year-old radiation flash-burns,and I could begin to make out the distant stump of the EmpireStateBuilding, thrusting up out of Inferno like a mangled finger."They haven't been picked up so far," the approaching policemangrumbled. "Left smoke for fiveblocks, from what Ryan says."The first policeman shook his head. "That's bad," he observed solemnly.I was feeling a bit uneasy and ashamed. An Englishmanshouldn't lie, atleast not on impulse."They sound like nasty customers," the first policeman continued in thesame grim tone. "We'll need witnesses. Looks as if youmay have to stayin New York longer than you expect."I got the point. I said, "I forgot to show you all my papers," andhanded him a few others, making surethere was a five dollar bill inamong them.       *       *       *       *       *When he handed them back a bit later, his voice was no longer ominous.My feelings ofguilt vanished. To cement our relationship, I chattedwith the two of them about their job."I suppose the masks give you some trouble," I observed. "OverinEngland we've been reading about your new crop of masked femalebandits.""Those things get exaggerated," the first policeman assured me. "It'sthe menmasking as women that really mix us up. But, brother, when wenab them, we jump on them with both feet.""And you get so you can spot women almost as wellas if they had nakedfaces," the second policeman volunteered. "You know, hands and allthat.""Especially all that," the first agreed with a chuckle. "Say, is ittruethat some girls don't mask over in England?""A number of them have picked up the fashion," I told him. "Only a few,though--the ones who always adopt thelatest style, however extreme.""They're usually masked in the British newscasts.""I imagine it's arranged that way out of deference to American taste,"Iconfessed. "Actually, not very many do mask."The second policeman considered that. "Girls going down the street barefrom the neck up." It was not clearwhether he viewed the prospect withrelish or moral distaste. Likely both."A few members keep trying to persuade Parliament to enact a lawforbidding allmasking," I continued, talking perhaps a bit too much.The second policeman shook his head. "What an idea. You know, masks area pretty good thing, brother.Couple of years more and I'm going tomake my wife wear hers around the house."The first policeman shrugged. "If women were to stop wearing masks, insixweeks you wouldn't know the difference. You get used to anything,if enough people do or don't do it."I agreed, rather regretfully, and left them. I turned north onBroadway(old Tenth Avenue, I believe) and walked rapidly until I was beyondInferno. Passing such an area of undecontaminated radioactivity alwaysmakes aperson queasy. I thanked God there weren't any such in England,as yet.The street was almost empty, though I was accosted by a couple ofbeggars with facestunneled by H-bomb scars, whether real or of makeupputty, I couldn't tell. A fat woman held out a baby with webbed fingersand toes. I told myself it would havebeen deformed anyway and that shewas only capitalizing on our fear of bomb-induced mutations. Still,I gave her a seven-and-a-half-cent piece. Her mask mademe feel I waspaying tribute to an African fetish."May all your children be blessed with one head and two eyes, sir.""Thanks," I said, shuddering, and hurried pasther."... There's only trash behind the mask, so turn your head, stick toyour task: Stay away, stay away--from--the--girls!"       *       *       *       *       *This lastwas the end of an anti-sex song being sung by somereligionists half a block from the circle-and-cross insignia of afemalist temple. They reminded me only faintlyof our small tribeof British monastics. Above their heads was a jumble of billboardsadvertising predigested foods, wrestling instruction, radio handies andthe like.Istared at the hysterical slogans with disagreeable fascination. Sincethe female face and form have been banned on American signs, the veryletters of theadvertiser's alphabet have begun to crawl with sex--thefat-bellied, big-breasted capital B, the lascivious double O. However,I reminded myself, it is chiefly themask that so strangely accents sexin America.A British anthropologist has pointed out, that, while it took morethan 5,000 years to shift the chief point of sexualinterest from thehips to the breasts, the next transition to the face has taken lessthan 50 years. Comparing the American style with Moslem tradition isnot valid;Moslem women are compelled to wear veils, the purpose ofwhich is concealment, while American women have only the compulsion offashion and use masks tocreate mystery.Theory aside, the actual origins of the trend are to be found inthe anti-radiation clothing of World War III, which led to maskedwrestling, now afantastically popular sport, and that in turn led tothe current female fashion. Only a wild style at first, masks quicklybecame as necessary as brassieres andlipsticks had been earlier in thecentury.I finally realized that I was not speculating about masks in general,but about what lay behind one in particular. That's thedevil of thethings; you're never sure whether a girl is heightening lovelinessor hiding ugliness. I pictured a cool, pretty face in which fearshowed only in widenedeyes. Then I remembered her blonde hair, richagainst the blackness of the satin mask. She'd told me to come at thetwenty-second hour--ten p.m.I climbed to myapartment near the British Consulate; the elevatorshaft had been shoved out of plumb by an old blast, a nuisance in thesetall New York buildings. Before itoccurred to me that I would begoing out again, I automatically tore a tab from the film strip undermy shirt. I developed it just to be sure. It showed that thetotalradiation I'd taken that day was still within the safety limit. I'mnot phobic about it, as so many people are these days, but there's nopoint in taking chances.Iflopped down on the day bed and stared at the silent speaker and thedark screen of the video set. As always, they made me think, somewhatbitterly, of the twogreat nations of the world. Mutilated by eachother, yet still strong, they were crippled giants poisoning the planetwith their dreams of an impossible equality andan impossible success.I fretfully switched on the speaker. By luck, the newscaster wastalking excitedly of the prospects of a bumper wheat crop, sown byplanesacross a dust bowl moistened by seeded rains. I listenedcarefully to the rest of the program (it was remarkably clear ofRussian telejamming) but there was no


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Heartbreak House, by George Bernard ShawThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Heartbreak HouseAuthor: George Bernard ShawPosting Date: January 13, 2009 [EBook #3543]Release Date: November,2002Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEARTBREAK HOUSE ***Produced by Eve SobolHEARTBREAK HOUSEA FANTASIA INTHE RUSSIAN MANNER ON ENGLISH THEMESBy Bernard Shaw1913-1916HEARTBREAK HOUSE AND HORSEBACK HALLWhere Heartbreak HouseStandsHeartbreak House is not merely the name of the play which follows thispreface. It is cultured, leisured Europe before the war. When theplay was begun nota shot had been fired; and only the professionaldiplomatists and the very few amateurs whose hobby is foreign policyeven knew that the guns were loaded. ARussian playwright, Tchekov, hadproduced four fascinating dramatic studies of Heartbreak House, ofwhich three, The Cherry Orchard, Uncle Vanya, and TheSeagull, had beenperformed in England. Tolstoy, in his Fruits of Enlightenment, had shownus through it in his most ferociously contemptuous manner. Tolstoydidnot waste any sympathy on it: it was to him the house in which Europewas stifling its soul; and he knew that our utter enervation andfutilization in thatoverheated drawingroom atmosphere was deliveringthe world over to the control of ignorant and soulless cunning andenergy, with the frightful consequenceswhich have now overtakenit. Tolstoy was no pessimist: he was not disposed to leave the housestanding if he could bring it down about the ears of its prettyandamiable voluptuaries; and he wielded the pickaxe with a will. He treatedthe case of the inmates as one of opium poisoning, to be dealt with byseizing thepatients roughly and exercising them violently until theywere broad awake. Tchekov, more of a fatalist, had no faith in thesecharming people extricatingthemselves. They would, he thought, be soldup and sent adrift by the bailiffs; and he therefore had no scruple inexploiting and even flattering their charm.TheInhabitantsTchekov's plays, being less lucrative than swings and roundabouts,got no further in England, where theatres are only ordinary commercialaffairs, thana couple of performances by the Stage Society. We staredand said, "How Russian!" They did not strike me in that way. Justas Ibsen's intensely Norwegian playsexactly fitted every middle andprofessional class suburb in Europe, these intensely Russian playsfitted all the country houses in Europe in which the pleasures ofmusic,art, literature, and the theatre had supplanted hunting, shooting,fishing, flirting, eating, and drinking. The same nice people, the sameutter futility. Thenice people could read; some of them couldwrite; and they were the sole repositories of culture who had socialopportunities of contact with our politicians,administrators, andnewspaper proprietors, or any chance of sharing or influencing theiractivities. But they shrank from that contact. They hated politics. Theydidnot wish to realize Utopia for the common people: they wished torealize their favorite fictions and poems in their own lives; and, whenthey could, they livedwithout scruple on incomes which they did nothingto earn. The women in their girlhood made themselves look like varietytheatre stars, and settled down laterinto the types of beauty imaginedby the previous generation of painters. They took the only part of oursociety in which there was leisure for high culture, andmade it aneconomic, political and; as far as practicable, a moral vacuum; and asNature, abhorring the vacuum, immediately filled it up with sex and withall sortsof refined pleasures, it was a very delightful place at itsbest for moments of relaxation. In other moments it was disastrous. Forprime ministers and their like, itwas a veritable Capua.Horseback HallBut where were our front benchers to nest if not here? The alternativeto Heartbreak House was Horseback Hall, consisting ofa prison forhorses with an annex for the ladies and gentlemen who rode them, huntedthem, talked about them, bought them and sold them, and gavenine-tenthsof their lives to them, dividing the other tenth between charity,churchgoing (as a substitute for religion), and conservativeelectioneering (as asubstitute for politics). It is true that the twoestablishments got mixed at the edges. Exiles from the library, themusic room, and the picture gallery would befound languishing among thestables, miserably discontented; and hardy horsewomen who slept at thefirst chord of Schumann were born, horribly misplaced, intothe gardenof Klingsor; but sometimes one came upon horsebreakers and heartbreakerswho could make the best of both worlds. As a rule, however, the twowereapart and knew little of one another; so the prime minister folk hadto choose between barbarism and Capua. And of the two atmospheres it ishard to saywhich was the more fatal to statesmanship.Revolution on the ShelfHeartbreak House was quite familiar with revolutionary ideas on paper.It aimed at beingadvanced and freethinking, and hardly ever went tochurch or kept the Sabbath except by a little extra fun at weekends.When you spent a Friday to Tuesday in ityou found on the shelf in yourbedroom not only the books of poets and novelists, but of revolutionarybiologists and even economists. Without at least a few playsby myselfand Mr Granville Barker, and a few stories by Mr H. G. Wells, Mr ArnoldBennett, and Mr John Galsworthy, the house would have been out ofthemovement. You would find Blake among the poets, and beside him Bergson,Butler, Scott Haldane, the poems of Meredith and Thomas Hardy, and,generallyspeaking, all the literary implements for forming the mind ofthe perfect modern Socialist and Creative Evolutionist. It was a curiousexperience to spend Sunday indipping into these books, and the Mondaymorning to read in the daily paper that the country had just beenbrought to the verge of anarchy because a new HomeSecretary or chief ofpolice without an idea in his head that his great-grandmother mightnot have had to apologize for, had refused to "recognize" somepowerfulTrade Union, just as a gondola might refuse to recognize a 20,000-tonliner.In short, power and culture were in separate compartments. Thebarbarianswere not only literally in the saddle, but on the frontbench in the House of commons, with nobody to correct their incredibleignorance of modern thought andpolitical science but upstarts fromthe counting-house, who had spent their lives furnishing their pocketsinstead of their minds. Both, however, were practised indealing withmoney and with men, as far as acquiring the one and exploiting the otherwent; and although this is as undesirable an expertness as that ofthemedieval robber baron, it qualifies men to keep an estate or a businessgoing in its old routine without necessarily understanding it, just asBond Streettradesmen and domestic servants keep fashionable societygoing without any instruction in sociology.The Cherry OrchardThe Heartbreak people neither could norwould do anything of the sort.With their heads as full of the Anticipations of Mr H. G. Wells asthe heads of our actual rulers were empty even of the anticipationsofErasmus or Sir Thomas More, they refused the drudgery of politics, andwould have made a very poor job of it if they had changed their minds.Not that theywould have been allowed to meddle anyhow, as only throughthe accident of being a hereditary peer can anyone in these days ofVotes for Everybody get intoparliament if handicapped by a seriousmodern cultural equipment; but if they had, their habit of living in avacuum would have left them helpless end ineffective inpublicaffairs. Even in private life they were often helpless wasters of theirinheritance, like the people in Tchekov's Cherry Orchard. Even those wholived withintheir incomes were really kept going by their solicitorsand agents, being unable to manage an estate or run a business withoutcontinual prompting from thosewho have to learn how to do such thingsor starve.From what is called Democracy no corrective to this state of thingscould be hoped. It is said that every peoplehas the Governmentit deserves. It is more to the point that every Government has theelectorate it deserves; for the orators of the front bench can edifyordebauch an ignorant electorate at will. Thus our democracy moves in avicious circle of reciprocal worthiness and unworthiness.Nature's Long CreditsNature'sway of dealing with unhealthy conditions is unfortunately notone that compels us to conduct a solvent hygiene on a cash basis. Shedemoralizes us with longcredits and reckless overdrafts, and then pullsus up cruelly with catastrophic bankruptcies. Take, for example, commondomestic sanitation. A whole citygeneration may neglect it utterlyand scandalously, if not with absolute impunity, yet without any evilconsequences that anyone thinks of tracing to it. In ahospital twogenerations of medical students way tolerate dirt and carelessness, andthen go out into general practice to spread the doctrine that freshair is a fad,and sanitation an imposture set up to make profits forplumbers. Then suddenly Nature takes her revenge. She strikes at thecity with a pestilence and at thehospital with an epidemic of hospitalgangrene, slaughtering right and left until the innocent young have paidfor the guilty old, and the account is balanced. Andthen she goes tosleep again and gives another period of credit, with the same result.This is what has just happened in our political hygiene. Politicalscience hasbeen as recklessly neglected by Governments and electoratesduring my lifetime as sanitary science was in the days of Charles theSecond. In internationalrelations diplomacy has been a boyishly lawlessaffair of family intrigues, commercial and territorial brigandage,torpors of pseudo-goodnature produced bylaziness and spasms offerocious activity produced by terror. But in these islands we muddledthrough. Nature gave us a longer credit than she gave to FranceorGermany or Russia. To British centenarians who died in their beds in1914, any dread of having to hide underground in London from theshells of an enemyseemed more remote and fantastic than a dread of theappearance of a colony of cobras and rattlesnakes in Kensington Gardens.In the prophetic works of CharlesDickens we were warned againstmany evils which have since come to pass; but of the evil of beingslaughtered by a foreign foe on our own doorsteps there wasno shadow.Nature gave us a very long credit; and we abused it to the utmost. Butwhen she struck at last she struck with a vengeance. For four yearsshe smoteour firstborn and heaped on us plagues of which Egypt neverdreamed. They were all as preventable as the great Plague of London, andcame solely because theyhad not been prevented. They were not undone bywinning the war. The earth is still bursting with the dead bodies of thevictors.The Wicked Half CenturyIt isdifficult to say whether indifference and neglect are worse thanfalse doctrine; but Heartbreak House and Horseback Hall unfortunatelysuffered from both. For half


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                               MONKEYBONE                               Written by                                Sam Hamm                based on thecomic book "Dark Town" by                    Kaja Blackley and Vanessa Chong                                                           SEVENTHDRAFT                                                         3 FEBRUARY 1999FADE IN:MAIN CREDITS ROLLover BLACK SCREEN, withPORTENTOUS SPOOKY MUSIC underneath. Just as themusic reaches its crescendo, we hear a simian SCREECH.A BUCK-TOOTHED CARTOON MONKEY swings paston a vine. TITLE WIPES IN withhim:                             MONKEYBONE(tm)                                   in                            "FREUD CHICKEN!"TIGHTCLOSEUP - STANLEY (ANIMATED)A POCKETWATCH swings back and forth in F.G. Gaping at it is a goofy,bespectacled CARTOON CHARACTER, sucking histhumb as his EYES move backand forth. After a moment, the LEFT EYE freezes in place - but the righteye keeps going back and forth with thewatch.                           SHRINK'S VOICE (o.s.)            Back, Stanley...you're going back...back to when            it all began. Are you going back yet? Comeon,            get back, ve haven't got all day.Now BOTH EYES are locked in place. The patient is hypnotized.INT. SCHOOLROOM - DAY (ANIMATED)Asquat, lumpy TEACHER, MISS HUDLAPP, is straining to erase theGettysburg Address, which is written along the very top of theblackboard. There's an obtrusive,rhythmic BANGING noice in B.G.                           STANLEY (V.O.)            It was third grade. The teacher was Miss            Hudlapp. She was kinda


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Marianela, by Benito PÃ©rez GaldÃ³sThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother parts ofthe world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg Licenseincluded 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 arelocated before using this ebook.Title: MarianelaAuthor: Benito PÃ©rez GaldÃ³sTranslator: Clara BellRelease Date: April 28, 2015 [EBook #48818]Language:English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARIANELA ***Produced by Josep Cols Canals, Roberto Marabini and theOnline DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net(This file was produced from images generously madeavailable by The Internet Archive/AmericanLibraries.)Transcriber's Notes: Format Conventions  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_  Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=  Superscripts are denoted by'^{XX}'. For example: 1^{st}  MARIANELA  BY  B. PEREZ GALDÃS  Author of "Gloria," etc.  From the Spanish by CLARA BELL  REVISED AND CORRECTED INTHE UNITED STATES  NEW YORK  WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER  11 MURRAY STREET  1883  Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year1883  By William S. Gottsberger  In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington  THIS TRANSLATION WAS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THEPUBLISHER  Press of  William S. Gottsberger  New YorkTRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.Those who have read "Gloria" will, it is hoped, hail with pleasureanother work bythe same writer, Perez GaldÃ³s--different it is true,but in its way not less delightful.The strongly-marked humor and darkly-painted tragedy of "Gloria" arenot tobe found in "Marianela;" the characters are distinct and crisplysketched, but with a tender hand, the catastrophe is pitiable, rathershocking; the whole tone isidyllic.I have not hesitated to translate literally the Spanish words ofendearment; for though they are foreign to the calmer spirit of ournorthern tongue they aretoo characteristic to be lost, and they arestrangely pathetic as the only outlet found for the imprisoned spiritof the hapless little heroine.  CLARABELL.CONTENTS.  CHAP.                                     PAGE.  I.--Gone Astray.                              1  II.--Guided Right.                           10  III.--A Dialogue whichexplains much.        24  IV.--Stony Hearts.                           35  V.--Labor, and a Landscape withFigures.     52  VI.--Absurdities.                            62  VII.--More Absurdities.                      73  VIII.--And yet more.                         84  IX.--The BrothersGolfin.                    98  X.--Nobody's Children.                      117  XI.--The Patriarch of Aldeacorba.           124  XII.--DoctorCelipin.                       136  XIII.--Between two Baskets.                 144  XIV.--How the Virgin Mary appeared to Nela. 151  XV.--The ThreeChildren.                    164  XVI.--The Vow.                              172  XVII.--A Fugitive.                          179  XVIII.--Nela decides that she mustgo.      192  XIX.--Nela is Tamed.                        201  XX.--A New World.                           220  XXI.--Eyes thatKill.                       234  XXII.--Farewell.                            260MARIANELA.CHAPTER I.GONE ASTRAY.The sun had set. After the brief interval of twilight thenight fellcalm and dark, and in its gloomy bosom the last sounds of a sleepyworld died gently away. The traveller went forward on his way,hastening his step asnight came on; the path he followed was narrowand worn by the constant tread of men and beasts, and led gently up ahill on whose verdant slopes grewpicturesque clumps of wild cherrytrees, beeches and oaks.--The reader perceives that we are in the northof Spain.Our traveller was a man of middle age, stronglybuilt, tall andbroad-shouldered; his movements were brisk and resolute, his stepfirm, his manner somewhat rugged, his eye bold and bright; his pacewas nimble,considering that he was decidedly stout, and he was--thereader may at once be told, though somewhat prematurely--as good asoul as you may meet withanywhere. He was dressed, as a man in easycircumstances should be dressed for a journey in spring weather, withone of those round shady hats, which, fromtheir ugly shape, have beennicknamed mushrooms (_hongo_), a pair of field-glasses hanging to astrap, and a knotted stick which, when he did not use it tosupport hissteps, served to push aside the brambles when they flung their thornybranches across so as to catch his dress.He presently stopped, and gazing roundthe dim horizon, he seemed vexedand puzzled. He evidently was not sure of his way and was lookinground for some passing native of the district who might givehim suchtopographical information as might enable him to reach his destination."I cannot be mistaken," he said to himself. "They told me to cross theriver by thestepping-stones--and I did so--then to walk on, straighton. And there, to my right, I do in fact, see that detestable townwhich I should call _Villafangosa_ byreason of the enormous amount ofmud that chokes the streets.--Well then, I can but go 'on, straighton'--I rather like the phrase, and if I bore arms, I wouldadopt itfor my motto--in order to find myself at last at the famous mines ofSocartes."But before he had gone much farther, he added: "I have lost myway,beyond a doubt I have lost my way.--This, Teodoro Golfin, is theresult of your 'on, straight on.' Bah! these blockheads do not knowthe meaning of words;either they meant to laugh at you or elsethey did not know the way to the mines of Socartes. A huge miningestablishment must be evident to the senses, with itsbuildings andchimneys, its noise of hammers and snorting of furnaces, neighing ofhorses and clattering of machinery--and I neither see, nor hear, norsmellanything. I might be in a desert! How absolutely solitary! If Ibelieved in witches, I could fancy that Fate intended me this night tohave the honor of makingacquaintance with some. Deuce take it! why isthere no one to be seen in these parts? And it will be half an houryet before the moon rises. Ah! treacherous Luna,it is you who are toblame for my misadventure.--If only I could see what sort of place Iam in.--However, what could I expect?" and he shrugged his shoulderswiththe air of a vigorous man who scorns danger. "What, Golfin, afterhaving wandered all round the world are you going to give in now? Thepeasants were right afterall: 'on, straight on.' The universal law oflocomotion cannot fail me here."And he bravely set out to test the law, and went on about a kilometrefarther, followingthe paths which seemed to start from under his feet,crossing each other and breaking off at a short distance, in a thousandangles which puzzled and tired him.Stout as his resolution was, atlast he grew weary of his vain efforts. The paths, which had at firstall led upwards, began to slope downwards as they crossed eachother,and at last he came to so steep a slope that he could only hope to getto the bottom by rolling down it."A pretty state of things!" he exclaimed, trying toconsole himself forthis provoking situation by his sense of the ridiculous. "Where haveyou got to now my friend? This is a perfect abyss. Is anything to beseen atthe bottom. No, nothing, absolutely nothing--the hill-side hasdisappeared, the earth has been dug away. There is nothing to be seenbut stones and barren soiltinged red with iron. I have reached themines, no doubt of that--and yet there is not a living soul to be seen,no smoky chimneys; no noise, not a train in thedistance, not even adog barking. What am I to do? Out there the path seems to slope upagain.--Shall I follow that? Shall I leave the beaten track? Shall I gobackagain? Oh! this is absurd! Either I am not myself or I will reachSocartes to-night, and be welcomed by my worthy brother! 'On, straighton.'"He took a step, andhis foot sank in the soft and crumbling soil."What next, ye ruling stars? Am I to be swallowed up alive? If onlythat lazy moon would favor us with a little light wemight see eachother's faces--and, upon my soul, I can hardly expect to find Paradiseat the bottom of this hole. It seems to be the crater of someextinctvolcano.... Nothing could be easier than a slide down this beautifulprecipice. What have we here?... A stone; capital--a good seat while Ismoke a cigar andwait for the moon to rise."The philosophical Golfin seated himself as calmly as if it were abench by a promenade, and was preparing for his smoke, when he heardavoice--yes, beyond a doubt, a human voice, at some little distance--aplaintive air, or to speak more accurately, a melancholy chant of asingle phrase, of whichthe last cadence was prolonged into a "dyingfall," and which at last sank into the silence of the night, so softlythat the ear could not detect when itceased."Come," said the listener, well pleased, "there are some human beingsabout. That was a girl's voice; yes, certainly a girl's, and a lovelyvoice too. I like thepopular airs of this country-side. Now it hasstopped.... Hark! it will soon begin again.... Yes, I hear it oncemore. What a beautiful voice, and what a pathetic air!You mightbelieve that it rose from the bowels of the earth, and that SeÃ±orGolfin, the most matter-of-fact and least superstitious man in thisworld, was going tomake acquaintance with sylphs, nymphs, gnomes,dryads, and all the rabble rout that obey the mysterious spirit of theplace.--But, if I am not mistaken, the voiceis going farther away--thefair singer is departing.... Hi, girl, child, stop--wait a minute!..."The voice which had for a few minutes so charmed the lost wandererwithits enchanting strains was dying away in the dark void, and at theshouts of Golfin it was suddenly silent. Beyond a doubt the mysteriousgnome, who wassolacing its underground loneliness by singing itsplaintive loves, had taken fright at this rough interruption by a humanbeing, and fled to the deepest caverns ofthe earth, where preciousgems lay hidden, jealous of their own splendor."This is a pleasant state of things--" muttered Golfin, thinking thatafter all he could do nobetter than light his cigar.--"There seems noreason why it should not go on for a hundred years. I can smoke andwait. It was a clever idea of mine that I couldwalk up alone to themines of Socartes. My luggage will have got there before me--a signalproof of the advantages of 'on, straight on.'"A light breeze at thisinstant sprang up, and Golfin fancied heheard the sound of footsteps at the bottom of the unknown--orimaginary--abyss before him; he listened sharply, and in aminute feltquite certain that some one was walking below. He stood up and shouted:"Girl, man, or whoever you are, can I get to the mines of Socartes bythisroad?"He had not done speaking when he heard a dog barking wildly, and then amanly voice saying: "Choto, Choto! come here!""Hi there!" cried the traveller."My good friend--man, boy, demon, orwhatever you are, call back your dog, for I am a man of peace.""Choto, Choto!..."Golfin could make out the form of a large,black dog coming towardshim, but after sniffing round him it retired at its master's call;and at that moment the traveller could distinguish a figure, a


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies, by Beatrix PotterThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The Tale of the Flopsy BunniesAuthor: Beatrix PotterRelease Date: November 30, 2004 [EBook #14220]Language: English*** STARTOF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIES ***Produced by Michael Ciesielski and the Online DistributedProofreadingTeam.[Illustration][Illustration]    THE TALE OF    THE FLOPSY BUNNIES    BY    BEATRIX POTTER    _Author of    "The Tale of Peter Rabbit,"&c._[Illustration]    FREDERICK WARNE & CO., INC.    NEW YORK    1909    FOR ALL LITTLE FRIENDS    OF    MR. MCGREGOR & PETER &BENJAMIN[Illustration]It is said that the effect of eating too much lettuce is "soporific."_I_ have never felt sleepy after eating lettuces; but then _I_ am notarabbit.They certainly had a very soporific effect upon the Flopsy Bunnies!When Benjamin Bunny grew up, he married his Cousin Flopsy. They had alarge family,and they were very improvident and cheerful.I do not remember the separate names of their children; they weregenerally called the "FlopsyBunnies."[Illustration][Illustration]As there was not always quite enough to eat,--Benjamin used to borrowcabbages from Flopsy's brother, Peter Rabbit, who kepta nursery garden.Sometimes Peter Rabbit had no cabbages to spare.[Illustration][Illustration]When this happened, the Flopsy Bunnies went across the field to arubbishheap, in the ditch outside Mr. McGregor's garden.Mr. McGregor's rubbish heap was a mixture. There were jam pots and paperbags, and mountains ofchopped grass from the mowing machine (which alwaystasted oily), and some rotten vegetable marrows and an old boot or two.One day--oh joy!--there were aquantity of overgrown lettuces, which had"shot" into flower.[Illustration]The Flopsy Bunnies simply stuffed lettuces. By degrees, one after another,they wereovercome with slumber, and lay down in the mown grass.Benjamin was not so much overcome as his children. Before going to sleephe was sufficiently wideawake to put a paper bag over his head to keepoff the flies.The little Flopsy Bunnies slept delightfully in the warm sun. From thelawn beyond the garden came thedistant clacketty sound of the mowingmachine. The bluebottles buzzed about the wall, and a little old mousepicked over the rubbish among the jam pots.(I cantell you her name, she was called Thomasina Tittlemouse, awoodmouse with a long tail.)[Illustration][Illustration]She rustled across the paper bag, andawakened Benjamin Bunny.The mouse apologized profusely, and said that she knew Peter Rabbit.While she and Benjamin were talking, close under the wall, theyheard aheavy tread above their heads; and suddenly Mr. McGregor emptied out asackful of lawn mowings right upon the top of the sleeping FlopsyBunnies!Benjamin shrank down under his paper bag. The mouse hid in a jam pot.[Illustration][Illustration]The little rabbits smiled sweetly in their sleep under theshower ofgrass; they did not awake because the lettuces had been so soporific.They dreamt that their mother Flopsy was tucking them up in a hay bed.Mr.McGregor looked down after emptying his sack. He saw some funny littlebrown tips of ears sticking up through the lawn mowings. He stared at themfor sometime.Presently a fly settled on one of them and it moved.Mr. McGregor climbed down on to the rubbish heap--"One, two, three, four! five! six leetle rabbits!" saidhe as he droppedthem into his sack. The Flopsy Bunnies dreamt that their mother wasturning them over in bed. They stirred a little in their sleep, but stillthey didnot wake up.[Illustration][Illustration]Mr. McGregor tied up the sack and left it on the wall.He went to put away the mowing machine.While he was gone, Mrs.Flopsy Bunny (who had remained at home) cameacross the field.She looked suspiciously at the sack and wondered where everybody was?[Illustration]Then themouse came out of her jam pot, and Benjamin took the paper bagoff his head, and they told the doleful tale.Benjamin and Flopsy were in despair, they could notundo the string.But Mrs. Tittlemouse was a resourceful person. She nibbled a hole in thebottom corner of the sack.[Illustration]The little rabbits were pulled outand pinched to wake them.Their parents stuffed the empty sack with three rotten vegetable marrows,an old blacking-brush and two decayedturnips.[Illustration]Then they all hid under a bush and watched for Mr. McGregor.[Illustration]Mr. McGregor came back and picked up the sack, and carried itoff.He carried it hanging down, as if it were rather heavy.The Flopsy Bunnies followed at a safe distance.[Illustration]The watched him go into his house.And thenthey crept up to the window to listen.[Illustration]Mr. McGregor threw down the sack on the stone floor in a way that wouldhave been extremely painful to theFlopsy Bunnies, if they had happened tohave been inside it.They could hear him drag his chair on the flags, and chuckle--"One, two, three, four, five, six leetlerabbits!" said Mr. McGregor.[Illustration][Illustration]"Eh? What's that? What have they been spoiling now?" enquired Mrs.McGregor."One, two, three, four, five,six leetle fat rabbits!" repeated Mr.McGregor, counting on his fingers--"one, two, three--""Don't you be silly; what do you mean, you silly old man?""In the sack!one, two, three, four, five, six!" replied Mr. McGregor.(The youngest Flopsy Bunny got upon the window-sill.)Mrs. McGregor took hold of the sack and felt it. Shesaid she could feelsix, but they must be _old_ rabbits, because they were so hard and alldifferent shapes."Not fit to eat; but the skins will do fine to line my oldcloak.""Line your old cloak?" shouted Mr. McGregor--"I shall sell them and buymyself baccy!""Rabbit tobacco! I shall skin them and cut off theirheads."[Illustration]Mrs. McGregor untied the sack and put her hand inside.When she felt the vegetables she became very very angry. She said that Mr.McGregorhad "done it a purpose."[Illustration]And Mr. McGregor was very angry too. One of the rotten marrows came flyingthrough the kitchen window, and hit theyoungest Flopsy Bunny.It was rather hurt.[Illustration]Then Benjamin and Flopsy thought that it was time to go home.[Illustration]So Mr. McGregor did not gethis tobacco, and Mrs. McGregor did not get herrabbit skins.[Illustration]But next Christmas Thomasina Tittlemouse got a present of enoughrabbit-wool to makeherself a cloak and a hood, and a handsome muff and apair of warm mittens.[Illustration][Illustration]THE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIESBY BEATRIX POTTERF.WARNE & CoEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies, by Beatrix Potter*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TALE OF THEFLOPSY BUNNIES ******** This file should be named 14220.txt or 14220.zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be foundin:        http://www.gutenberg.net/1/4/2/2/14220/Produced by Michael Ciesielski and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam.Updated editions will replace theprevious one--the old editionswill be renamed.Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a United States copyright in theseworks, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission and without paying copyright royalties.  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ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Immensee, by Theodore W. StormThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: ImmenseeAuthor: Theodore W. StormPosting Date: July 28, 2010 [EBook #6650]Release Date: October, 2004Language: English***START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IMMENSEE ***Produced by Delphine Lettau, Charles Franks, and the OnlineDistributed ProofreadingTeam.IMMENSEEBY THEODOR W. STORMTRANSLATED BY C. W. BELL M. A.PREFACEWe are at the beginning of a new era which will, it is to be hoped, bemarkedby a general _rapprochement_ between the nations. The need toknow and understand one another is being felt more and more. It followsthat the study of foreignlanguages will assume an ever-increasingimportance; indeed, so far as language, literature, and music areconcerned, one may safely assert that _fas est et abhoste doceri_.All those who wish to make acquaintance with the speech of theirneighbours, or who have allowed their former knowledge to grow rusty,willwelcome this edition, which will enable them, independently ofbulky dictionaries, to devote to language study the moments of leisurewhich offer themselves inthe course of the day.The texts have been selected from the double point of view of theirliterary worth and of the usefulness of their vocabulary; inthetranslations, also, the endeavour has been to unite qualities of stylewith strict fidelity to the original.INTRODUCTIONTheodor W. Storm, poet and short-storywriter (1817-1888), was born inSchleswig. He was called to the Bar in his native town, Husum, in1842, but had his licence to practise cancelled in 1853for'Germanophilism,' and had to remove to Germany. It was only in 1864that he was able to return to Husum, where in 1874 he became a judgeof the Court ofAppeals.As early as 1843 he had made himself known as a lyrical poet of theRomantic School, but it was as a short-story writer that he first tooka prominentplace in literature, making a most happy _dÃ©but_ withthe story entitled _Immensee_.There followed a long series of tales, rich in fancy and in humour,althoughtheir inspiration is generally derived from the humble townand country life which formed his immediate environment; but he wrotenothing that excels, in depthand tenderness of feeling, the charmingstory of _Immensee_; and taking his work all in all, Storm stillranks to-day as a master of the short story in Germanliterature, richthough it is in this form of prose-fiction.IMMENSEETHE OLD MANOne afternoon in the late autumn a well-dressed old man was walkingslowly downthe street. He appeared to be returning home from a walk,for his buckle-shoes, which followed a fashion long since out of date,were covered with dust.Under hisarm he carried a long, gold-headed cane; his dark eyes, inwhich the whole of his long-lost youth seemed to have centred, andwhich contrasted strangely with hissnow-white hair, gazed calmly onthe sights around him or peered into the town below as it lay beforehim, bathed in the haze of sunset. He appeared to be almostastranger, for of the passers-by only a few greeted him, although manya one involuntarily was compelled to gaze into those grave eyes.At last he halted before ahigh, gabled house, cast one more glanceout toward the town, and then passed into the hall. At the sound ofthe door-bell some one in the room within drew asidethe green curtainfrom a small window that looked out on to the hall, and the face of anold woman was seen behind it. The man made a sign to her withhiscane."No light yet!" he said in a slightly southern accent, and thehousekeeper let the curtain fall again.The old man now passed through the broad hall,through an inner hall,wherein against the walls stood huge oaken chests bearing porcelainvases; then through the door opposite he entered a small lobby,fromwhich a narrow staircase led to the upper rooms at the back of thehouse. He climbed the stairs slowly, unlocked a door at the top, andlanded in a room ofmedium size.It was a comfortable, quiet retreat. One of the walls was lined withcupboards and bookcases; on the other hung pictures of men and places;on atable with a green cover lay a number of open books, and beforethe table stood a massive arm-chair with a red velvet cushion.After the old man had placed hishat and stick in a corner, he sat downin the arm-chair and, folding his hands, seemed to be taking his restafter his walk. While he sat thus, it was growinggradually darker; andbefore long a moonbeam came streaming through the window-panes and uponthe pictures on the wall; and as the bright band of lightpassed slowlyonward the old man followed it involuntarily with his eyes.Now it reached a little picture in a simple black frame. "Elisabeth!"said the old man softly;and as he uttered the word, time had changed:_he was young again_.       *       *       *       *       *THE CHILDRENBefore very long the dainty form of a littlemaiden advanced towardhim. Her name was Elisabeth, and she might have been five years old.He himself was twice that age. Round her neck she wore a redsilkkerchief which was very becoming to her brown eyes."Reinhard!" she cried, "we have a holiday, a holiday! No school thewhole day and none to-morroweither!"Reinhard was carrying his slate under his arm, but he flung it behindthe front door, and then both the children ran through the house intothe garden andthrough the garden gate out into the meadow. Theunexpected holiday came to them at a most happily opportune moment.It was in the meadow that Reinhard,with Elisabeth's help, had built ahouse out of sods of grass. They meant to live in it during the summerevenings; but it still wanted a bench. He set to work atonce; nails,hammer, and the necessary boards were already to hand.While he was thus engaged, Elisabeth went along the dyke, gatheringthe ring-shaped seedsof the wild mallow in her apron, with the objectof making herself chains and necklaces out of them; so that whenReinhard had at last finished his bench in spite ofmany a crookedlyhammered nail, and came out into the sunlight again, she was alreadywandering far away at the other end of the meadow."Elisabeth!" hecalled, "Elisabeth!" and then she came, her hairstreaming behind her."Come here," he said; "our house is finished now. Why, you have gotquite hot! Come in, andlet us sit on the new bench. I will tell you astory."So they both went in and sat down on the new bench. Elisabeth took thelittle seed-rings out of her apron andstrung them on long threads.Reinhard began his tale: "There were once upon a time threespinning-women..."[1][1] The beginning of one of the best known ofGrimm's fairy tales."Oh!" said Elisabeth, "I know that off by heart; you really must notalways tell me the same story."Accordingly Reinhard had to give up thestory of the threespinning-women and tell instead the story of the poor man who was castinto the den of lions."It was now night," he said, "black night, youknow, and the lionswere asleep. But every now and then they would yawn in their sleep andshoot out their red tongues. And then the man would shudder andthinkit was morning. All at once a bright light fell all about him, andwhen he looked up an angel was standing before him. The angel beckonedto him with his handand then went straight into the rocks."Elisabeth had been listening attentively. "An angel?" she said. "Hadhe wings then?""It is only a story," answered Reinhard;"there are no angels, youknow.""Oh, fie! Reinhard!" she said, staring him straight in the face.He looked at her with a frown, and she asked him hesitatingly:"Well,why do they always say there are? mother, and aunt, and at school aswell?""I don't know," he answered."But tell me," said Elisabeth, "are there no lionseither?""Lions? Are there lions? In India, yes. The heathen priests harnessthem to their carriages, and drive about the desert with them. WhenI'm big, I mean togo out there myself. It is thousands of times morebeautiful in that country than it is here at home; there's no winterat all there. And you must come with me. Willyou?""Yes," said Elisabeth; "but mother must come with us, and your motheras well.""No," said Reinhard, "they will be too old then, and cannot comewithus.""But I mayn't go by myself.""Oh, but you may right enough; you will then really be my wife, andthe others will have no say in the matter.""But motherwill cry!""We shall come back again of course," said Reinhard impetuously. "Nowjust tell me straight out, will you go with me? If not, I will go allalone, and then Ishall never come back again."The little girl came very near to crying. "Please don't look soangry," said she; "I will go to India with you."Reinhard seized both herhands with frantic glee, and rushed out withher into the meadow."To India, to India!" he sang, and swung her round and round, so thather little red kerchief waswhirled from off her neck. Then hesuddenly let her go and said solemnly:"Nothing will come of it, I'm sure; you haven't the pluck.""Elisabeth! Reinhard!" someone was now calling from the garden gate."Here we are!" the children answered, and raced home hand in hand.       *       *       *       *       *IN THE WOODSSothe children lived together. She was often too quiet for him, andhe was often too head-strong for her, but for all that they stuck toone another. They spent nearlyall their leisure hours together: inwinter in their mothers' tiny rooms, during the summer in wood andfield.Once when Elisabeth was scolded by the teacher inReinhard's hearing,he angrily banged his slate upon the table in order to turn uponhimself the master's wrath. This failed to attract attention.But Reinhard paid nofurther attention to the geography lessons, andinstead he composed a long poem, in which he compared himself to ayoung eagle, the schoolmaster to a greycrow, and Elisabeth to a whitedove; the eagle vowed vengeance on the grey crow, as soon as his wingshad grown.Tears stood in the young poet's eyes: he feltvery proud of himself.When he reached home he contrived to get hold of a littleparchment-bound volume with a lot of blank pages in it; and on the firstpages heelaborately wrote out his first poem.Soon after this he went to another school. Here he made many newfriendships among boys of his own age, but this did notinterrupt hiscomings and goings with Elisabeth. Of the stories which he hadformerly told her over and over again he now began to write down theones which shehad liked best, and in doing so the fancy often tookhim to weave in something of his own thoughts; yet, for some reason hecould not understand, he could nevermanage it.So he wrote them down exactly as he had heard them himself. Then hehanded them over to Elisabeth, who kept them carefully in a drawer ofherwriting-desk, and now and again of an evening when he was presentit afforded him agreeable satisfaction to hear her reading aloud toher mother these little talesout of the notebooks in which he hadwritten them.Seven years had gone by. Reinhard was to leave the town in order toproceed to his higher education. Elisabethcould not bring herself tothink that there would now be a time to be passed entirely withoutReinhard. She was delighted when he told her one day that he


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<TITLE>TOY STORY</TITLE>
                      "TOY STORY"                   Original Storyby                     John Lasseter                      Pete Docter                     Andrew Stanton                       Joe Ranft                     Screenplay by                      JossWhedon                     Andrew Stanton              Joel Cohen and Alec Sokolow                                                                        FINALDRAFT                                                 November 1995                         "TOY STORY"FADE IN:INT. ANDY'S BEDROOMA rowof moving boxes lie on the floor of the room.  Theyare drawn up in crayon to look like a miniature Western town.The bedroom is lined with cloud wallpaper givingtheimpression of sky.One of the boxes has a children's illustrated "WANTED"poster of a Mr. Potato Head taped to it.A MR. POTATO HEAD DOLL is set in front ofthe poster.  TheVOICE OVER of ANDY, a 6-year-old boy, can be heard actingout all the voices of the scene.                         ANDY (AS POTATOHEAD)            Alright everyone, this is a stick-            up!  Don't anybody move!  Now empty            that safe!A GROUP OF TOYS have been crowdedtogether in front of the"BANK" box.Andy's hand lowers a CERAMIC PIGGY BANK in front of Mr.Potato Head and shakes out a pile of coins to the floor.  Mr.Potato


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<title>THELMA &LOUISE</title>
                                    "THELMA & LOUISE"                                            by                                      CallieKhouri                                  Final shooting script                                       JUNE 5, 1990                               FADEIN:               INT.  RESTAURANT - MORNING (PRESENT DAY)               LOUISE is a waitress in a coffee shop.  She is in herearly-               thirties, but too old to be doing this.  She is very pretty                and meticulously groomed, even at the end of her shift.  She                isslamming dirty coffee cups from the counter into a bus                tray underneath the counter.  It is making a lot of RACKET,                which she is obliviousto.  There is COUNTRY MUZAK in the                b.g., which she hums along with.               INT.  THELMA'S KITCHEN - MORNING               THELMA is ahousewife.  It's morning and she is slamming                coffee cups from the breakfast table into the kitchen sink,                which is full of dirty breakfast dishesand some stuff left                from last night's dinner which had to "soak".  She is still                in her nightgown.  The TV is ON in the b.g.               From thekitchen, we can see an incomplete wallpapering                project going on in the dining room, an obvious "do-it-               yourself" attempt byThelma.               INT.  RESTAURANT - MORNING               Louise goes to the pay phone and dials a number.               INT.  THELMA'S KITCHEN -


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pellucidar, by Edgar Rice BurroughsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: PellucidarAuthor: Edgar Rice BurroughsPosting Date: July 26, 2008 [EBook #605]Release Date: July, 1996[Last update: July 8,2012]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PELLUCIDAR ***Produced by Judith BossPELLUCIDARByEdgar RiceBurroughsCONTENTSCHAPTER       PROLOGUE    I  LOST ON PELLUCIDAR   II  TRAVELING WITH TERROR  III  SHOOTING THE CHUTES--ANDAFTER   IV  FRIENDSHIP AND TREACHERY    V  SURPRISES   VI  A PENDENT WORLD  VII  FROM PLIGHT TO PLIGHT VIII  CAPTIVE   IX  HOOJA'S CUTTHROATSAPPEAR    X  THE RAID ON THE CAVE-PRISON   XI  ESCAPE  XII  KIDNAPED! XIII  RACING FOR LIFE  XIV  GORE AND DREAMS   XV  CONQUEST ANDPEACEPROLOGUESeveral years had elapsed since I had found the opportunity to do anybig-game hunting; for at last I had my plans almost perfected for areturnto my old stamping-grounds in northern Africa, where in otherdays I had had excellent sport in pursuit of the king of beasts.The date of my departure had beenset; I was to leave in two weeks.  Noschoolboy counting the lagging hours that must pass before thebeginning of "long vacation" released him to the deliriousjoys of thesummer camp could have been filled with greater impatience or keeneranticipation.And then came a letter that started me for Africa twelve days aheadofmy schedule.Often am I in receipt of letters from strangers who have foundsomething in a story of mine to commend or to condemn.  My interest inthisdepartment of my correspondence is ever fresh.  I opened thisparticular letter with all the zest of pleasurable anticipation withwhich I had opened so manyothers.  The post-mark (Algiers) had arousedmy interest and curiosity, especially at this time, since it wasAlgiers that was presently to witness the termination ofmy coming seavoyage in search of sport and adventure.Before the reading of that letter was completed lions and lion-huntinghad fled my thoughts, and I was in astate of excitement bordering uponfrenzy.It--well, read it yourself, and see if you, too, do not find food forfrantic conjecture, for tantalizing doubts, and for agreat hope.Here it is:DEAR SIR: I think that I have run across one of the most remarkablecoincidences in modern literature.  But let me start at the beginning:Iam, by profession, a wanderer upon the face of the earth.  I have notrade--nor any other occupation.My father bequeathed me a competency; some remoterancestors lust toroam.  I have combined the two and invested them carefully and withoutextravagance.I became interested in your story, At the Earth's Core, notso muchbecause of the probability of the tale as of a great and abiding wonderthat people should be paid real money for writing such impossibletrash.  You willpardon my candor, but it is necessary that youunderstand my mental attitude toward this particular story--that youmay credit that which follows.Shortlythereafter I started for the Sahara in search of a rather rarespecies of antelope that is to be found only occasionally within alimited area at a certain season of theyear.  My chase led me far fromthe haunts of man.It was a fruitless search, however, in so far as antelope is concerned;but one night as I lay courting sleep atthe edge of a little clusterof date-palms that surround an ancient well in the midst of the arid,shifting sands, I suddenly became conscious of a strange soundcomingapparently from the earth beneath my head.It was an intermittent ticking!No reptile or insect with which I am familiar reproduces any suchnotes.  I lay foran hour--listening intently.At last my curiosity got the better of me.  I arose, lighted my lampand commenced to investigate.My bedding lay upon a rug stretcheddirectly upon the warm sand.  Thenoise appeared to be coming from beneath the rug.  I raised it, butfound nothing--yet, at intervals, the sound continued.I duginto the sand with the point of my hunting-knife.  A few inchesbelow the surface of the sand I encountered a solid substance that hadthe feel of wood beneath thesharp steel.Excavating about it, I unearthed a small wooden box.  From thisreceptacle issued the strange sound that I had heard.How had it come here?What didit contain?In attempting to lift it from its burying place I discovered that itseemed to be held fast by means of a very small insulated cable runningfarther into thesand beneath it.My first impulse was to drag the thing loose by main strength; butfortunately I thought better of this and fell to examining the box.  Isoon sawthat it was covered by a hinged lid, which was held closed bya simple screwhook and eye.It took but a moment to loosen this and raise the cover, when, tomyutter astonishment, I discovered an ordinary telegraph instrumentclicking away within."What in the world," thought I, "is this thing doing here?"That it was aFrench military instrument was my first guess; but reallythere didn't seem much likelihood that this was the correctexplanation, when one took into account theloneliness and remotenessof the spot.As I sat gazing at my remarkable find, which was ticking and clickingaway there in the silence of the desert night, trying toconvey somemessage which I was unable to interpret, my eyes fell upon a bit ofpaper lying in the bottom of the box beside the instrument.  I pickedit up andexamined it.  Upon it were written but two letters:D. I.They meant nothing to me then.  I was baffled.Once, in an interval of silence upon the part of thereceivinginstrument, I moved the sending-key up and down a few times.  Instantlythe receiving mechanism commenced to work frantically.I tried to recallsomething of the Morse Code, with which I had playedas a little boy--but time had obliterated it from my memory.  I becamealmost frantic as I let my imaginationrun riot among the possibilitiesfor which this clicking instrument might stand.Some poor devil at the unknown other end might be in dire need ofsuccor.  The veryfranticness of the instrument's wild clashingbetokened something of the kind.And there sat I, powerless to interpret, and so powerless to help!It was then that theinspiration came to me.  In a flash there leapedto my mind the closing paragraphs of the story I had read in the clubat Algiers:Does the answer lie somewhereupon the bosom of the broad Sahara, atthe ends of two tiny wires, hidden beneath a lost cairn?The idea seemed preposterous.  Experience and intelligencecombined toassure me that there could be no slightest grain of truth orpossibility in your wild tale--it was fiction pure and simple.And yet where WERE the otherends of those wires?What was this instrument--ticking away here in the great Sahara--but atravesty upon the possible!Would I have believed in it had I not seenit with my own eyes?And the initials--D. I.--upon the slip of paper!David's initials were these--David Innes.I smiled at my imaginings.  I ridiculed the assumptionthat there wasan inner world and that these wires led downward through the earth'scrust to the surface of Pellucidar.  And yet--Well, I sat there all night,listening to that tantalizing clicking,now and then moving the sending-key just to let the other end know thatthe instrument had been discovered.  In themorning, after carefullyreturning the box to its hole and covering it over with sand, I calledmy servants about me, snatched a hurried breakfast, mounted myhorse,and started upon a forced march for Algiers.I arrived here today.  In writing you this letter I feel that I ammaking a fool of myself.There is no DavidInnes.There is no Dian the Beautiful.There is no world within a world.Pellucidar is but a realm of your imagination--nothing more.BUT--The incident of the findingof that buried telegraph instrument uponthe lonely Sahara is little short of uncanny, in view of your story ofthe adventures of David Innes.I have called it one ofthe most remarkable coincidences in modernfiction.  I called it literature before, but--again pardon mycandor--your story is not.And now--why am I writingyou?Heaven knows, unless it is that the persistent clicking of thatunfathomable enigma out there in the vast silences of the Sahara has sowrought upon mynerves that reason refuses longer to function sanely.I cannot hear it now, yet I know that far away to the south, all alonebeneath the sands, it is still poundingout its vain, frantic appeal.It is maddening.It is your fault--I want you to release me from it.Cable me at once, at my expense, that there was no basis of factforyour story, At the Earth's Core.Very respectfully yours,COGDON NESTOR,  ---- and ---- Club,    Algiers.      June 1st, --.Ten minutes after reading this letter Ihad cabled Mr. Nestor asfollows:Story true.  Await me Algiers.As fast as train and boat would carry me, I sped toward my destination.For all those dragging daysmy mind was a whirl of mad conjecture, offrantic hope, of numbing fear.The finding of the telegraph-instrument practically assured me thatDavid Innes haddriven Perry's iron mole back through the earth's crustto the buried world of Pellucidar; but what adventures had befallen himsince his return?Had he found Dianthe Beautiful, his half-savage mate, safe among hisfriends, or had Hooja the Sly One succeeded in his nefarious schemes toabduct her?Did Abner Perry, thelovable old inventor and paleontologist, stilllive?Had the federated tribes of Pellucidar succeeded in overthrowing themighty Mahars, the dominant race of reptilianmonsters, and theirfierce, gorilla-like soldiery, the savage Sagoths?I must admit that I was in a state bordering upon nervous prostrationwhen I entered the ----and ---- Club, in Algiers, and inquired for Mr.Nestor.  A moment later I was ushered into his presence, to find myselfclasping hands with the sort of chap that theworld holds only too fewof.He was a tall, smooth-faced man of about thirty, clean-cut, straight,and strong, and weather-tanned to the hue of a desert Arab.  Ilikedhim immensely from the first, and I hope that after our three monthstogether in the desert country--three months not entirely lacking inadventure--he foundthat a man may be a writer of "impossible trash"and yet have some redeeming qualities.The day following my arrival at Algiers we left for the south, Nestorhavingmade all arrangements in advance, guessing, as he naturally did,that I could be coming to Africa for but a single purpose--to hasten atonce to the buriedtelegraph-instrument and wrest its secret from it.In addition to our native servants, we took along an Englishtelegraph-operator named Frank Downes.  Nothingof interest enlivenedour journey by rail and caravan till we came to the cluster ofdate-palms about the ancient well upon the rim of the Sahara.It was the veryspot at which I first had seen David Innes.  If he hadever raised a cairn above the telegraph instrument no sign of itremained now.  Had it not been for the chancethat caused Cogdon Nestorto throw down his sleeping rug directly over the hidden instrument, itmight still be clicking there unheard--and this story stillunwritten.When we reached the spot and unearthed the little box the instrumentwas quiet, nor did repeated attempts upon the part of our telegraphersucceed in


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     ADAPTATION                byCharlie Kaufman and Donald Kaufman       adapted from the book      THE ORCHIDTHIEF                by           Susan Orlean                                     September 24, 1999                                          Second DraftEXT. ROCKYTERRAIN - DAYEndless barren landscape. No sign of life. The atmosphereis hazy, toxic-looking. Volcanoes erupt. Meteors bombard.Lightning strikes,concussing murky pools of water. Silence.INT. LARGE EMPTY LIVING ROOM - MORNINGSUBTITLE: HOLLYWOOD, CA, FOUR BILLION AND FORTYYEARS LATERBeamed ceilings and ostentatious fireplace. A few birthdaycards on the mantel, two of them identical: "To Our Dear Sonon His FortiethBirthday." Charlie Kaufman, a fat, baldingman in a purple sweater with tags still attached, paces theroom. His incantational voice-over carpets thescene.                    KAUFMAN (V.O.)          I am old. I am fat. I am bald. My          toenails have turned strange. I am          repulsive. How repulsive? Idon't know          for I suffer from a condition called Body          Dysmorphic Disorder. I am fat, but am I          as fat as I think? My therapist says no,          butpeople lie. I believe others call me          Fatty behind my back. Or Fatso. Or,          facetiously, Slim. But I also believe          this is simply my own pervertedform of          self-aggrandizement, that no one really          talks about me at all. What possible          interest is an old, bald, fat man to          anyone? I amrepulsive. I have never          lived. I blame myself. I --EXT. STATE ROAD 29 - DAWNA lonely two-lane highway cutting through


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Great Shadow and Other Napoleonic Talesby Arthur Conan DoyleThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no costand 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 oronline at www.gutenberg.netTitle: The Great Shadow and Other Napoleonic TalesAuthor: Arthur Conan DoyleRelease Date: March 22, 2004 [EBook#11656]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT SHADOW ***Produced by Lionel G. SearTHE GREAT SHADOW ANDOTHER NAPOLEONIC TALESA. CONAN DOYLECONTENTSTHE GREAT SHADOW  I.    THE NIGHT OF THE BEACONS  II.   COUSIN EDIE OF EYEMOUTH  III.  THESHADOW ON THE WATERS  IV.   THE CHOOSING OF JIM  V.    THE MAN FROM THE SEA  VI.   A WANDERING EAGLE  VII.  THE SHADOW ON THE LAND  VIII. THECOMING OF THE CUTTER  IX.   THE DOINGS AT WEST INCH  X.    THE RETURN OF THE SHADOW  XI.   THE GATHERING OF THE NATIONS  XII.  THE SHADOW ONTHE LAND  XIII. THE END OF THE STORM  XIV.  THE TALLY OF DEATH  XV.   THE END OF ITTHE CRIME OF THE BRIGADIERTHE "SLAPPING SAL"THE GREATSHADOW.CHAPTER I.THE NIGHT OF THE BEACONS.It is strange to me, Jock Calder of West Inch, to feel that though now,in the very centre of the nineteenthcentury, I am but five-and-fiftyyears of age, and though it is only once in a week perhaps that my wifecan pluck out a little grey bristle from over my ear, yet Ihave livedin a time when the thoughts and the ways of men were as different asthough it were another planet from this.  For when I walk in my fields Ican see,down Berwick way, the little fluffs of white smoke which tellme of this strange new hundred-legged beast, with coals for food and athousand men in its belly, forever crawling over the border.On a shiny day I can see the glint of the brass work as it takes thecurve near Corriemuir; and then, as I look out to sea, there is thesamebeast again, or a dozen of them maybe, leaving a trail of black in theair and of white in the water, and swimming in the face of the wind aseasily as a salmonup the Tweed.  Such a sight as that would have struckmy good old father speechless with wrath as well as surprise; for he wasso stricken with the fear ofoffending the Creator that he was chary ofcontradicting Nature, and always held the new thing to be nearly akin tothe blasphemous.  As long as God made thehorse, and a man downBirmingham way the engine, my good old dad would have stuck by thesaddle and the spurs.But he would have been still more surprisedhad he seen the peace andkindliness which reigns now in the hearts of men, and the talk in thepapers and at the meetings that there is to be no more war--save,ofcourse, with blacks and such like.  For when he died we had beenfighting with scarce a break, save only during two short years, for verynearly a quarter of acentury.  Think of it, you who live so quietly andpeacefully now!  Babies who were born in the war grew to be bearded menwith babies of their own, and still thewar continued.  Those who hadserved and fought in their stalwart prime grew stiff and bent, and yetthe ships and the armies were struggling.  It was no wonderthat folkcame at last to look upon it as the natural state, and thought how queerit must seem to be at peace.  During that long time we fought the Dutch,wefought the Danes, we fought the Spanish, we fought the Turks, wefought the Americans, we fought the Monte-Videans, until it seemed thatin this universalstruggle no race was too near of kin, or too far away,to be drawn into the quarrel.  But most of all it was the French whom wefought, and the man whom of allothers we loathed and feared and admiredwas the great Captain who ruled them.It was very well to draw pictures of him, and sing songs about him, andmake asthough he were an impostor; but I can tell you that the fear ofthat man hung like a black shadow over all Europe, and that there was atime when the glint of afire at night upon the coast would set everywoman upon her knees and every man gripping for his musket.  He hadalways won: that was the terror of it.  TheFates seemed to be behindhim.  And now we knew that he lay upon the northern coast with a hundredand fifty thousand veterans, and the boats for theirpassage.  But it isan old story, how a third of the grown folk of our country took up arms,and how our little one-eyed, one-armed man crushed their fleet.Therewas still to be a land of free thinking and free speaking inEurope.There was a great beacon ready on the hill by Tweedmouth, built up oflogs and tar-barrels; and Ican well remember how, night after night, Istrained my eyes to see if it were ablaze.  I was only eight at thetime, but it is an age when one takes a grief to heart,and I felt asthough the fate of the country hung in some fashion upon me and myvigilance.  And then one night as I looked I suddenly saw a littleflicker on thebeacon hill--a single red tongue of flame in thedarkness.  I remember how I rubbed my eyes, and pinched myself, andrapped my knuckles against the stonewindow-sill, to make sure that Iwas indeed awake.  And then the flame shot higher, and I saw the redquivering line upon the water between; and I dashed intothe kitchen,screeching to my father that the French had crossed and the Tweedmouthlight was aflame.  He had been talking to Mr. Mitchell, the law studentfromEdinburgh; and I can see him now as he knocked his pipe out at theside of the fire, and looked at me from over the top of his hornspectacles."Are you sure,Jock?" says he."Sure as death!" I gasped.He reached out his hand for the Bible upon the table, and opened it uponhis knee as though he meant to read to us; buthe shut it again insilence, and hurried out.  We went too, the law student and I, andfollowed him down to the gate which opens out upon the highway.  Fromtherewe could see the red light of the big beacon, and the glimmer of asmaller one to the north of us at Ayton.  My mother came down with twoplaids to keep the chillfrom us, and we all stood there until morning,speaking little to each other, and that little in a whisper.  The roadhad more folk on it than ever passed along it atnight before; for manyof the yeomen up our way had enrolled themselves in the Berwickvolunteer regiments, and were riding now as fast as hoof could carrythemfor the muster.  Some had a stirrup cup or two before parting, andI cannot forget one who tore past on a huge white horse, brandishing agreat rusty sword in themoonlight.  They shouted to us as they passedthat the North Berwick Law fire was blazing, and that it was thoughtthat the alarm had come from EdinburghCastle.  There were a few whogalloped the other way, couriers for Edinburgh, and the laird's son, andMaster Clayton, the deputy sheriff, and such like.  Andamong othersthere was one a fine built, heavy man on a roan horse, who pulled up atour gate and asked some question about the road.  He took off his hattoease himself, and I saw that he had a kindly long-drawn face, and agreat high brow that shot away up into tufts of sandy hair."I doubt it's a false alarm," saidhe.  "Maybe I'd ha' done well to bidewhere I was; but now I've come so far, I'll break my fast with theregiment."He clapped spurs to his horse, and away he wentdown the brae."I ken him weel," said our student, nodding after him.  "He's a lawyerin Edinburgh, and a braw hand at the stringin' of verses.  Wattie Scottis hisname."None of us had heard of it then; but it was not long before it was thebest known name in Scotland, and many a time we thought of how hespeered his wayof us on the night of the terror.But early in the morning we had our minds set at ease.  It was grey andcold, and my mother had gone up to the house to make apot of tea forus, when there came a gig down the road with Dr. Horscroft of Ayton init and his son Jim.  The collar of the doctor's brown coat came over hisears,and he looked in a deadly black humour; for Jim, who was butfifteen years of age, had trooped off to Berwick at the first alarm withhis father's new fowlingpiece.  All night his dad had chased him, andnow there he was, a prisoner, with the barrel of the stolen gun stickingout from behind the seat.  He looked as sulkyas his father, with hishands thrust into his side-pockets, his brows drawn down, and his lowerlip thrusting out."It's all a lie!" shouted the doctor as hepassed.  "There has been nolanding, and all the fools in Scotland have been gadding about the roadsfor nothing."His son Jim snarled something up at him on this,and his father struckhim a blow with his clenched fist on the side of his head, which sentthe boy's chin forward upon his breast as though he had been stunned.Myfather shook his head, for he had a liking for Jim; but we all walkedup to the house again, nodding and blinking, and hardly able to keep oureyes open now thatwe knew that all was safe, but with a thrill of joyat our hearts such as I have only matched once or twice in mylifetime.Now all this has little enough to do withwhat I took my pen up to tellabout; but when a man has a good memory and little skill, he cannot drawone thought from his mind without a dozen others trailingout behind it.And yet, now that I come to think of it, this had something to do withit after all; for Jim Horscroft had so deadly a quarrel with his father,that he waspacked off to the Berwick Academy, and as my father had longwished me to go there, he took advantage of this chance to send me also.But before I say a wordabout this school, I shall go back to where Ishould have begun, and give you a hint as to who I am; for it may bethat these words of mine may be read by somefolk beyond the bordercountry who never heard of the Calders of  West Inch.It has a brave sound, West Inch, but it is not a fine estate with abraw house upon it,but only a great hard-bitten, wind-swept sheep run,fringing off into links along the sea-shore, where a frugal man mightwith hard work just pay his rent and havebutter instead of treacle onSundays.  In the centre there is a grey-stoned slate-roofed house with abyre behind it, and "1703" scrawled in stonework over thelintel of thedoor.  There for more than a hundred years our folk have lived, until,for all their poverty, they came to take a good place among the people;for in thecountry parts the old yeoman is often better thought of thanthe new laird.There was one queer thing about the house of West Inch.  It has beenreckoned byengineers and other knowing folk that the boundary linebetween the two countries ran right through the middle of it, splittingour second-best bedroom into anEnglish half and a Scotch half.  Now thecot in which I always slept was so placed that my head was to the northof the line and my feet to the south of it.  Myfriends say that if Ihad chanced to lie the other way my hair might not have been so sandy,nor my mind of so solemn a cast.  This I know, that more than once inmylife, when my Scotch head could see no way out of a danger, my goodthick English legs have come to my help, and carried me clear away.But at school Inever heard the end of this, for they would call me"Half-and-half" and "The Great Britain," and sometimes "Union Jack."When there was a battle between theScotch and English boys, one sidewould kick my shins and the other cuff my ears, and then they would bothstop and laugh as though it were something funny.At