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                           THE DESCENDANTS                              Written by                Alexander Payne, Nat Faxon & JimRash1   EXT. THE OCEAN - DAY                                              1    CLOSE ON a beautiful 40-YEAR-OLD WOMAN at the helm of a    powerfulSPEEDBOAT -- her hair tossed back by the wind, her    mouth in a euphoric grin.                                                        FADE OUT.2   CREDITS --ARCHIVAL FOOTAGE                                       2                         MATT (V.O.)               My missionary ancestors came to the               islandsand told the Hawaiians to put               on clothes, work hard, believe in               Christ, and stop surfing and hula               dancing. They made businessdeals               along the way -- buying an island, or               marrying a princess and inheriting her               land. Now their descendants wear               bikinisand running shorts, play beach               volleyball and surf, and take up hula               dancing. Hawai'i has always been a               place ofcontradiction.3   EXT. HONOLULU - DAY                                               3    VARIOUS SHOTS of Honolulu begin a pattern of montages tobe    interspersed throughout the film.                         MATT (V.O.)               My friends on the mainland think just               because I live in Hawai'i, Ilive in               paradise. Like a permanent vacation --               we're all just out here drinking mai-               tais, shaking our hips, andcatching               waves. Are they nuts? How can they               possibly think our families are less               screwed up, our heart attacks


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                           CLIFFHANGER                            Written by                          Michael France        EXT. MOUNTAINRANGE - HELICOPTER SHOT - DAY        An unparalleled set of sheer mountains -- part of the Colorado        Rockies. The peaks rise a challenging half mileand more out        of the valley -- wind-whipped snow mists over the mountains        like a low fog. The tranquility is broken as a helicopter        BLASTS intoview, fighting the wind as it heads for the center        of it all.        Our CREDITS fly us past and through this magnificent range.        There are sky-piercingpeaks that slope up to a narrow, high        pinnacle -- and others that are steel, straight-up approaches        to large plateaus. One of the mountains has a crystallake on        top -- with a waterfall that drains from it and exits from the        middle of a mountain wall. Nearby, an abandoned cable ladder        is bolted intothe same wall, leading to the top.        BACK IN THE HELICOPTER        We can see a man sitting in its doorway, looking out --        INT/EXTHELICOPTER - BINOCULAR POV        The glasses scan systematically, slowly -- to us, it looks        like nothing more than a field of gray andwhite.                                        FRANK (O.S.)                      Nothing yet.        EXT. THE MOUNTAINS - LONG SHOT        The helicopter nowcircles this tallest mountain -- "The        Tower", separated from a lower but equally formidable peak by        a chasm of two hundred feet -- that drops 3,500 feetbelow.        INSIDE HELICOPTER - FRANK AND MAGGIE        Spotter FRANK NEWELL (50s) scans the mountain wall.  MAGGIE        DEIGHAN (30s)


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of When We Dead Awaken, by Henrik IbsenThis 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: When We Dead AwakenAuthor: Henrik IbsenCommentator: William ArcherTranslator: William ArcherRelease Date: December, 2003[EBook #4782]Posting Date: February 17, 2010Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN WE DEAD AWAKEN ***Produced bySonia KWHEN WE DEAD AWAKENBy Henrik Ibsen.Introduction and translation by William Archer.INTRODUCTION.From _Pillars of Society_ to _John GabrielBorkman_, Ibsen's plays hadfollowed each other at regular intervals of two years, save when hisindignation over the abuse heaped upon _Ghosts_ reduced to asingleyear the interval between that play and _An Enemy of the People_. _JohnGabriel Borkman_ having appeared in 1896, its successor was expected in1898;but Christmas came and brought no rumour of a new play. In aman now over seventy, this breach of a long-established habit seemedominous. The new NationalTheatre in Christiania was opened in Septemberof the following year; and when I then met Ibsen (for the last time) hetold me that he was actually at work on anew play, which he thought ofcalling a "Dramatic Epilogue." "He wrote _When We Dead Awaken_,"says Dr. Elias, "with such labour and such passionate agitation,sospasmodically and so feverishly, that those around him were almostalarmed. He must get on with it, he must get on! He seemed to hearthe beating of darkpinions over his head. He seemed to feel the grimVisitant, who had accompanied Alfred Allmers on the mountain paths,already standing behind him with upliftedhand. His relatives are firmlyconvinced that he knew quite clearly that this would be his last play,that he was to write no more. And soon the blow fell."_When WeDead Awaken_ was published very shortly before Christmas 1899.He had still a year of comparative health before him. We find him inMarch 1900, writing toCount Prozor: "I cannot say yet whether or notI shall write another drama; but if I continue to retain the vigour ofbody and mind which I at present enjoy, I donot imagine that I shall beable to keep permanently away from the old battlefields. However, if Iwere to make my appearance again, it would be with newweapons andin new armour." Was he hinting at the desire, which he had long agoconfessed to Professor Herford, that his last work should be a drama inverse?Whatever his dream, it was not to be realised. His last letter(defending his attitude of philosophic impartiality with regard to theSouth African war) is datedDecember 9, 1900. With the dawn of the newcentury, the curtain descended upon the mind of the great dramatic poetof the age which had passed away._WhenWe Dead Awaken_ was acted during 1900 at most of the leadingtheatres in Scandinavia and Germany. In some German cities (notablyin Frankfort on Main) iteven attained a considerable number ofrepresentatives. I cannot learn, however, that it has anywhere held thestage. It was produced in London, by the StateSociety, at the ImperialTheatre, on January 25 and 26, 1903. Mr. G. S. Titheradge played Rubek,Miss Henrietta Watson Irene, Miss Mabel Hackney Maia, and Mr.LaurenceIrving Ulfheim. I find no record of any American performance.In the above-mentioned letter to Count Prozor, Ibsen confirmed thatcritic's conjecture that"the series which ends with the Epilogue reallybegan with _The Master Builder_." As the last confession, so to speak,of a great artist, the Epilogue will always beread with interest. Itcontains, moreover, many flashes of the old genius, many strokes of theold incommunicable magic. One may say with perfect sincerity thatthereis more fascination in the dregs of Ibsen's mind than in the "firstsprightly running" of more common-place talents. But to his saneadmirers the interest of theplay must always be melancholy, because itis purely pathological. To deny this is, in my opinion, to cast a slurover all the poet's previous work, and in greatmeasure to justify thecriticisms of his most violent detractors. For _When We Dead Awaken_ isvery like the sort of play that haunted the "anti-Ibsenite"imaginationin the year 1893 or thereabouts. It is a piece of self-caricature, aseries of echoes from all the earlier plays, an exaggeration of mannerto the pitch ofmannerism. Moreover, in his treatment of his symbolicmotives, Ibsen did exactly what he had hitherto, with perfect justice,plumed himself upon never doing: hesacrificed the surface realityto the underlying meaning. Take, for instance, the history of Rubek'sstatue and its development into a group. In actual sculpturethisdevelopment is a grotesque impossibility. In conceiving it we aredeserting the domain of reality, and plunging into some fourth dimensionwhere the propertiesof matter are other than those we know. This is anabandonment of the fundamental principle which Ibsen over and over againemphatically expressed--namely,that any symbolism his work might befound to contain was entirely incidental, and subordinate to the truthand consistency of his picture of life. Even when hedallied with thesupernatural, as in _The Master Builder_ and _Little Eyolf_, he wasalways careful, as I have tried to show, not to overstep decisivelytheboundaries of the natural. Here, on the other hand, without anysuggestion of the supernatural, we are confronted with the whollyimpossible, the inconceivable.How remote is this alike from hisprinciples of art and from the consistent, unvarying practice of hisbetter years! So great is the chasm between _John GabrielBorkman_ and_When We Dead Awaken_ that one could almost suppose his mental breakdownto have preceded instead of followed the writing of the latterplay.Certainly it is one of the premonitions of the coming end. It is Ibsen's_Count Robert of Paris_. To pretend to rank it with his masterpieces isto show a veryimperfect sense of the nature of their mastery.WHEN WE DEAD AWAKEN.A DRAMATIC EPILOGUE.CHARACTERS.      PROFESSOR ARNOLD RUBEK, asculptor.      MRS. MAIA RUBEK, his wife.      THE INSPECTOR at the Baths.      ULFHEIM, a landed proprietor.      A STRANGER LADY.      A SISTER OFMERCY.      Servants, Visitors to the Baths, and Children.The First Act passes at a bathing establishment on the coast; the Secondand Third Acts in theneighbourhood of a health resort, high in themountains.ACT FIRST.   [Outside the Bath Hotel. A portion of the main building can be seen   to the right.   An open,park-like place with a fountain, groups   of fine old trees, and shrubbery.  To the left, a little pavilion   almost covered with ivy and Virginia creeper.  A table andchair   outside it.  At the back a view over the fjord, right out to sea,   with headlands and small islands in the distance.  It is a calm,   warm and sunny summermorning.   [PROFESSOR RUBEK and MRS. MAIA RUBEK are sitting in basket chairs   beside a covered table on the lawn outside the hotel, havingjust   breakfasted.  They have champagne and seltzer water on the table,   and each has a newspaper.  PROFESSOR RUBEK is an elderly man of   distinguishedappearance, wearing a black velvet jacket, and   otherwise in light summer attire.  MAIA is quite young, with   a vivacious expression and lively, mocking eyes,yet with a   suggestion of fatigue.  She wears an elegant travelling dress.MAIA.[Sits for some time as though waiting for the PROFESSOR to saysomething, thenlets her paper drop with a deep sigh.] Oh dear, dear,dear--!PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Looks up from his paper.] Well, Maia? What is the matter with you?MAIA.Justlisten how silent it is here.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Smiles indulgently.] And you can hear that?MAIA.What?PROFESSOR RUBEK.The silence?MAIA.Yes, indeed Ican.PROFESSOR RUBEK.Well, perhaps you are right, _mein Kind_. One can really hear thesilence.MAIA.Heaven knows you can--when it's so absolutelyoverpowering as it ishere--PROFESSOR RUBEK.Here at the Baths, you mean?MAIA.Wherever you go at home here, it seems to me. Of course there was noiseandbustle enough in the town. But I don't know how it is--even thenoise and bustle seemed to have something dead about it.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[With a searchingglance.] You don't seem particularly glad to be athome again, Maia?MAIA.[Looks at him.] Are you glad?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Evasively.] I--?MAIA.Yes, you, whohave been so much, much further away than I. Are youentirely happy, now that you are at home again?PROFESSOR RUBEK.No--to be quite candid--perhaps notentirely happy--MAIA.[With animation.] There, you see! Didn't I know it!PROFESSOR RUBEK.I have been too long abroad. I have drifted quite away fromallthis--this home life.MAIA.[Eagerly, drawing her chair nearer him.] There, you see, Rubek! We hadmuch better get away again! As quickly as ever wecan.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Somewhat impatiently.] Well, well, that is what we intend to do, mydear Maia. You know that.MAIA.But why not now--at once? Onlythink how cozy and comfortable we couldbe down there, in our lovely new house--PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Smiles indulgently.] We ought by rights to say: our lovelynew home.MAIA.[Shortly.] I prefer to say house--let us keep to that.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[His eyes dwelling on her.] You are really a strange littleperson.MAIA.Am I so strange?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Yes, I think so.MAIA.But why, pray? Perhaps because I'm not desperately in love with mooningabout uphere--?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Which of us was it that was absolutely bent on our coming north thissummer?MAIA.I admit, it was I.PROFESSOR RUBEK.It wascertainly not I, at any rate.MAIA.But good heavens, who could have dreamt that everything would havealtered so terribly at home here? And in so short a time,too! Why, itis only just four years since I went away--PROFESSOR RUBEK.Since you were married, yes.MAIA.Married? What has that to do with thematter?PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Continuing.] --since you became the Frau Professor, and found yourselfmistress of a charming home--I beg your pardon--a veryhandsome house, Iought to say. And a villa on the Lake of Taunitz, just at the point thathas become most fashionable, too--. In fact it is all very handsomeanddistinguished, Maia, there's no denying that. And spacious too. We neednot always be getting in each other's way--MAIA.[Lightly.] No, no, no--there'scertainly no lack of house-room, and thatsort of thing--PROFESSOR RUBEK.Remember, too, that you have been living in altogether more spaciousanddistinguished surroundings--in more polished society than you wereaccustomed to at home.MAIA.[Looking at him.] Ah, so you think it is _I_ that havechanged?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Indeed I do, Maia.MAIA.I alone? Not the people here?PROFESSOR RUBEK.Oh yes, they too--a little, perhaps. And not at all in thedirection ofamiability. That I readily admit.MAIA.I should think you must admit it, indeed.PROFESSOR RUBEK.[Changing the subject.] Do you know how it affectsme when I look at thelife of the people around us here?MAIA.No. Tell me.PROFESSOR RUBEK.It makes me think of that night we spent in the train, when we


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lone Star Planetby Henry Beam Piper and John Joseph McGuireThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost andwithalmost 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.orgTitle: Lone Star PlanetAuthor: Henry Beam Piper and John Joseph McGuireRelease Date: January 3, 2007 [EBook #20121][This filewas first posted on December 16, 2006]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LONE STAR PLANET ***Produced by Greg Weeks,Malcolm Farmer, and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net                     LONE STAR PLANET                           by             H. BeamPiper and John J. McGuireTranscriber's Note:This etext was prepared from a 1979 reprint of the 1958 original. There isno evidence that the copyright on thispublication was renewed.Obvious typesetting errors in the source text have been correctedLone Star PlanetSFace booksA Division of Charter CommunicationsInc.A GROSSET & DUNLAP COMPANY360 Park Avenue SouthNew York, New York 10010LONE STAR PLANETCopyright Â© 1958 by Ace Books, Inc.Originallypublished as A PLANET FOR TEXANSAll rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any formor by any means, except for the inclusion of briefquotations in areview, without permission in writing from the publisher.All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actualpersons, living or dead,is purely coincidental.This Ace Printing: April 1979Printed in U.S.A.CHAPTER IThey started giving me the business as soon as I came through the doorinto theSecretary's outer office.There was Ethel K'wang-Li, the Secretary's receptionist, at her desk.There was Courtlant Staynes, the assistant secretary totheUndersecretary for Economic Penetration, and Norman Gazarin, fromProtocol, and Toby Lawder, from Humanoid Peoples' Affairs, and RaoulChavier, and HansMannteufel, and Olga Reznik.It was a wonder there weren't more of them watching the condemned man'smarch to the gibbet: the word that the Secretary hadcalled me in musthave gotten all over the Department since the offices had opened."Ah, Mr. Machiavelli, I presume," Ethel kicked off."Machiavelli, Junior." Olgapicked up the ball. "At least, that's theway he signs it.""God's gift to the Consular Service, and the Consular Service's gift toPolicy Planning," Gazarin added."Takeit easy, folks. These Hooligan Diplomats would as soon shoot youas look at you," Mannteufel warned."Be sure and tell the Secretary that your friends all wantimportantposts in the Galactic Empire." Olga again."Well, I'm glad some of you could read it," I fired back. "Maybe even afew of you understood what it was allabout.""Don't worry, Silk," Gazarin told me. "Secretary Ghopal understands whatit was all about. All too well, you'll find."A buzzer sounded gently on EthelK'wang-Li's desk. She snatched up thehandphone and whispered into it. A deathly silence filled the room whileshe listened, whispered some more, then hung itup.They were all staring at me."Secretary Ghopal is ready to see Mr. Stephen Silk," she said. "Thisway, please."As I started across the room, Staynes begandrumming on the top of thedesk with his fingers, the slow reiterated rhythm to which a man marchesto a military execution."A cigarette?" Lawder inquiredtonelessly. "A glass of rum?"There were three men in the Secretary of State's private office. GhopalSingh, the Secretary, dark-faced, gray-haired, slender andelegant,meeting me halfway to his desk. Another slender man, in black, with asilver-threaded, black neck-scarf: Rudolf KlÃ¼ng, the Secretary of theDepartmentof Aggression.And a huge, gross-bodied man with a fat baby-face and opaque black eyes.When I saw him, I really began to get frightened.The fat man wasNatalenko, the Security CoÃ¶rdinator."Good morning, Mister Silk," Secretary Ghopal greeted me, his handextended. "Gentlemen, Mr. Stephen Silk, about whomwe were speaking.This way, Mr. Silk, if you please."There was a low coffee-table at the rear of the office, and four easychairs around it. On the round brasstable-top were cups and saucers, acoffee urn, cigarettes--and a copy of the current issue of the _GalacticStatesmen's Journal_, open at an article entitled_Probable FutureCourses of Solar League Diplomacy_, by somebody who had signed himselfMachiavelli, Jr.I was beginning to wish that the pseudonymousMachiavelli, Jr. had neverbeen born, or, at least, had stayed on Theta Virgo IV and been awineberry planter as his father had wanted him to be.As I sat down andaccepted a cup of coffee, I avoided looking at theperiodical. They were probably going to hang it around my neck beforethey shoved me out of the airlock."Mr.Silk is, as you know, in our Consular Service," Ghopal was sayingto the others. "Back on Luna on rotation, doing something in Mr.Halvord's section. He is thegentleman who did such a splendid job forus on Assha--Gamma Norma III."And, as he has just demonstrated," he added, gesturing toward the_Statesman'sJournal_ on the Benares-work table, "he is a student bothof the diplomacy of the past and the implications of our presentpolicies.""A bit frank," KlÃ¼ngcommented dubiously."But judicious," Natalenko squeaked, in the high eunuchoid voice thatcame so incongruously from his bulk. "He aired his singularlyaccuratepredictions in a periodical that doesn't have a circulation of more thana thousand copies outside his own department. And I don't think thepublic'ssemantic reactions to the terminology of imperialism is as badas you imagine. They seem quite satisfied, now, with the change in thetitle of your department,from Defense to Aggression.""Well, we've gone into that, gentlemen," Ghopal said. "If the articlereally makes trouble for us, we can always disavow it. There'snocensorship of the _Journal_. And Mr. Silk won't be around to draw fireon us."_Here it comes_, I thought."That sounds pretty ominous, doesn't it, Mr. Silk?"Natalenko titteredhappily, like a ten-year-old who has just found a new beetle to pull thelegs out of."It's really not as bad as it sounds, Mr. Silk," Ghopal hastenedtoreassure me. "We are going to have to banish you for a while, but Idaresay that won't be so bad. The social life here on Luna has probablybegun to pall,anyhow. So we're sending you to Capella IV.""Capella IV," I repeated, trying to remember something about it. Capellawas a GO-type, like Sol; that wouldn't be sobad."New Texas," KlÃ¼ng helped me out._Oh, God, no!_ I thought."It happens that we need somebody of your sort on that planet, Mr.Silk," Ghopal said. "Someof the trouble is in my department and some ofit is in Mr. KlÃ¼ng's; for that reason, perhaps it would be better ifCoÃ¶rdinator Natalenko explained it to you.""Youknow, I assume, our chief interest in New Texas?" Natalenko asked."I had some of it for breakfast, sir," I replied. "Supercow."Natalenko tittered again. "Yes, NewTexas is the butcher shop of thegalaxy. In more ways than one, I'm afraid you'll find. They justbutchered one of our people there a short while ago. OurAmbassador, infact."That would be Silas Cumshaw, and this was the first I'd heard about it.I asked when it had happened."A couple of months ago. We just heardabout it last evening, when thenews came in on a freighter from there. Which serves to point upsomething you stressed in your article--the difficulties of tryingtorun a centralized democratic government on a galactic scale. But we haveanother interest, which may be even more urgent than our need for NewTexan meat.You've heard, of course, of the z'Srauff."That was a statement, not a question; Natalenko wasn't trying to insultme. I knew who the z'Srauff were; I'd run intothem, here and there. Oneof the extra-solar intelligent humanoid races, who seemed to have beenevolved from canine or canine-like ancestors, instead ofprimates. Mostof them could speak Basic English, but I never saw one who would admitto understanding more of our language than the 850-wordBasicvocabulary. They occupied a half-dozen planets in a small star-clusterabout forty light-years beyond the Capella system. They had developednormal-spacereaction-drive ships before we came into contact withthem, and they had quickly picked up the hyperspace-drive from us backin those days when the SolarLeague was still playing Missionaries ofProgress and trying to run a galaxy-wide Point-Four program.In the past century, it had become almost impossible foranybody to getinto their star-group, although z'Srauff ships were orbiting in on everyplanet that the League had settled or controlled. There were z'Sraufftradersand small merchants all over the galaxy, and you almost neversaw one of them without a camera. Their little meteor-mining boats wereeverywhere, and all ofthem carried more of the most modern radar andastrogational equipment than a meteor-miner's lifetime earnings wouldpay for.I also knew that they were one ofthe chief causes of ulcers andpremature gray hair at the League capital on Luna. I'd done a littlereading on pre-spaceflight Terran history; I had been impressedby theparallel between the present situation and one which had culminated, twoand a half centuries before, on the morning of 7 December, 1941."What,"Natalenko inquired, "do you think Machiavelli, Junior would doabout the z'Srauff?""We have a Department of Aggression," I replied. "Its mottoes are, 'Stoptroublebefore it starts,' and, 'If we have to fight, let's do it on theother fellow's real estate.' But this situation is just a little toodelicate for literal application of thoseprinciples. An unprovokedattack on the z'Srauff would set every other non-human race in thegalaxy against us.... Would an attack by the z'Srauff on NewTexasconstitute just provocation?""It might. New Texas is an independent planet. Its people aredescendants of emigrants from Terra who wanted to get awayfrom the ruleof the Solar League. We've been trying for half a century to persuadethe New Texan government to join the League. We need their planet, forbothstrategic and commercial reasons. With the z'Srauff for neighbors,they need us as much at least as we need them. The problem is to makethem understandthat."I nodded again. "And an attack by the z'Srauff would do that, too, sir,"I said.Natalenko tittered again. "You see, gentlemen! Our Mr. Silk picks thingsup veryhandily, doesn't he?" He turned to Secretary of State Ghopal."You take it from there," he invited.Ghopal Singh smiled benignly. "Well, that's it, Stephen," he said."Weneed a man on New Texas who can get things done. Three things, to beexact."First, find out why poor Mr. Cumshaw was murdered, and what can bedoneabout it to maintain our prestige without alienating the New Texans."Second, bring the government and people of New Texas to a realizationthat they needthe Solar League as much as we need them."And, third, forestall or expose the plans for the z'Srauff invasion ofNew Texas."_Is that all, now?_ I thought. _Hedoesn't want a diplomat; he wants amagician._"And what," I asked, "will my official position be on New Texas, sir? Orwill I have one, of any sort?""Oh, yes,indeed, Mr. Silk. Your official position will be that ofAmbassador Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary. That, I believe, isthe only vacancy which exists in the


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                               T I T A N I C                              a screenplay by                               James Cameron1BLACKNESSThen two faint lights appear, close together... growing brighter. Theyresolve into two DEEP SUBMERSIBLES, free-falling toward us likeexpresselevators.One is ahead of the other, and passes close enough to FILL FRAME, lookinglike a spacecraft blazing with lights, bristling withinsectilemanipulators.TILTING DOWN to follow it as it descends away into the limitless blacknessbelow. Soon they are fireflies, then stars. Thengone.                                                                   CUT TO:2 EXT./ INT. MIR ONE / NORTH ATLANTIC DEEPPUSHING IN on one of the fallingsubmersibles, called MIR ONE, right up toits circular viewport to see the occupants.INSIDE, it is a cramped seven foot sphere, crammed with equipment.ANATOLYMIKAILAVICH, the sub's pilot, sits hunched over his controls... singingsoftly in Russian.Next to him on one side is BROCK LOVETT. He's in his late forties,deeplytanned, and likes to wear his Nomex suit unzipped to show the gold fromfamous shipwrecks covering his gray chest hair. He is a wiley, fast-talkingtreasurehunter, a salvage superstar who is part historian, part adventurerand part vacuum cleaner salesman. Right now, he is propped against the CO2scrubber, fastasleep and snoring.On the other side, crammed into the remaining space is a bearded wide-bodynamed LEWIS BODINE, sho is also asleep. Lewis is an R.O.V.(REMOTELYOPERATED VEHICLE) pilot and is the resident Titanic expert.Anatoly glances at the bottom sonar and makes a ballast


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Man's Woman, by Frank NorrisThis 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: A Man's WomanAuthor: Frank NorrisRelease Date: June 20, 2005  [eBook #16096]Language: English***START OF THE PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK A MAN'S WOMAN***E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan, Project Gutenberg BeginnersProjects, and the Project GutenbergOnline Distributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net)A MAN'S WOMANbyFRANK NORRIS1904The following novel was completed March 22, 1899, and sentto theprinter in October of the same year. After the plates had been madenotice was received that a play called "A Man's Woman" had been writtenby AnneCrawford Flexner, and that this title had been copyrighted.As it was impossible to change the name of the novel at the time thisnotice was received, it has beenpublished under its original title.F.N.New York.A MAN'S WOMANI.At four o'clock in the morning everybody in the tent was still asleep,exhausted by the terriblemarch of the previous day. The hummocky iceand pressure-ridges that Bennett had foreseen had at last been met with,and, though camp had been broken at sixo'clock and though men and dogshad hauled and tugged and wrestled with the heavy sledges until fiveo'clock in the afternoon, only a mile and a half had beencovered. Butthough the progress was slow, it was yet progress. It was not theharrowing, heart-breaking immobility of those long months aboard theFreja. Everyyard to the southward, though won at the expense of abattle with the ice, brought them nearer to Wrangel Island and ultimatesafety.Then, too, at supper-timethe unexpected had happened. Bennett, moved nodoubt by their weakened condition, had dealt out extra rations to eachman: one and two-thirds ounces ofbutter and six and two-thirds ouncesof aleuronate bread--a veritable luxury after the unvarying diet ofpemmican, lime juice, and dried potatoes of the pastfortnight. The menhad got into their sleeping-bags early, and until four o'clock in themorning had slept profoundly, inert, stupefied, almost without movement.Buta few minutes after four o'clock Bennett awoke. He was usually upabout half an hour before the others. On the day before he had been ableto get a meridianaltitude of the sun, and was anxious to complete hiscalculations as to the expedition's position on the chart that he hadbegun in the evening.He pushed back theflap of the sleeping-bag and rose to his full height,passing his hands over his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He wasan enormous man, standing six feettwo inches in his reindeer footnipsand having the look more of a prize-fighter than of a scientist. Evenmaking allowances for its coating of dirt and its harsh, blackstubbleof half a week's growth, the face was not pleasant. Bennett was an uglyman. His lower jaw was huge almost to deformity, like that of thebulldog, the chinsalient, the mouth close-gripped, with great lips,indomitable, brutal. The forehead was contracted and small, the foreheadof men of single ideas, and the eyes,too, were small and twinkling, oneof them marred by a sharply defined cast.But as Bennett was fumbling in the tin box that was lashed upon thenumber foursledge, looking for his notebook wherein he had begun hiscalculations for latitude, he was surprised to find a copy of the recordhe had left in the instrument boxunder the cairn at Cape Kammeni at thebeginning of this southerly march. He had supposed that this copy hadbeen mislaid, and was not a little relieved to comeacross it now. Heread it through hastily, his mind reviewing again the incidents of thelast few months. Certain extracts of this record ran as follows:"Arcticsteamer Freja, on ice off Cape Kammeni, New SiberianIslands, 76 deg. 10 min. north latitude, 150 deg. 40 min. eastlongitude, July 12, 1891.... We accordinglyfroze the ship in onthe last day of September, 1890, and during the following winterdrifted with the pack in a northwesterly direction.... On Friday,July 10, 1891,being in latitude 76 deg. 10 min. north; longitude150 deg. 10 min. east, the Freja was caught in a severe nip betweentwo floes and was crushed, sinking in abouttwo hours. We abandonedher, saving 200 days' provisions and all necessary clothing,instruments, etc...."I shall now attempt a southerly march over the ice toKolyuchin Bayby way of Wrangel Island, where provisions have been cached, hopingto fall in with the relief ships or steam whalers on the way. Ourparty consistsof the following twelve persons: ... All well withthe exception of Mr. Ferriss, the chief engineer, whose left handhas been badly frostbitten. No scurvy in the partyas yet. We haveeighteen Ostiak dogs with us in prime condition, and expect to dragour ship's boat upon sledges."WARD BENNETT, Commanding Freja ArcticExploring Expedition."Bennett returned this copy of the record to its place in the box, andstood for a moment in the centre of the tent, his head bent to avoidtheridge-pole, looking thoughtfully upon the ground.Well, so far all had gone right--no scurvy, provisions in plenty. Thedogs were in good condition, his mencheerful, trusting in him as in agod, and surely no leader could wish for a better lieutenant and comradethan Richard Ferriss--but this hummocky ice--thesepressure-ridges whichthe expedition had met the day before. Instead of turning at once to hisciphering Bennett drew the hood of the wolfskin coat over hishead,buttoned a red flannel mask across his face, and, raising the flap ofthe tent, stepped outside.Under the lee of the tent the dogs were sleeping, movelessbundles offur, black and white, perceptibly steaming. The three great McClintocksledges, weighted down with the Freja's boats and with theexpedition'simpedimenta, lay where they had been halted the evening before.In the sky directly in front of Bennett as he issued from the tent threemoons,hooped in a vast circle of nebulous light, shone roseate througha fine mist, while in the western heavens streamers of green, orange,and vermilion light,immeasurably vast, were shooting noiselessly fromhorizon to zenith.But Bennett had more on his mind that morning than mock-moons andauroras. To the southand east, about a quarter of a mile from the tent,the pressure of the floes had thrown up an enormous ridge of shatteredice-cakes, a mound, a long hill ofblue-green slabs and blocks huddlingtogether at every conceivable angle. It was nearly twenty feet inheight, quite the highest point that Bennett could discover.Scramblingand climbing over countless other ridges that intervened, he made hisway to it, ascended it almost on hands and knees, and, standing upon itshighestpoint, looked long and carefully to the southward.A wilderness beyond all thought, words, or imagination desolatestretched out before him there forever andforever--ice, ice, ice,fields and floes of ice, laying themselves out under that gloomy sky,league after league, endless, sombre, infinitely vast, infinitelyformidable.But now it was no longer the smooth ice over which theexpedition had for so long been travelling. In every direction,intersecting one another at ten thousandpoints, crossing andrecrossing, weaving a gigantic, bewildering network of gashed, jagged,splintered ice-blocks, ran the pressure-ridges and hummocks. Inplaces ascore or more of these ridges had been wedged together to form one hugefield of broken slabs of ice miles in width, miles in length. Fromhorizon tohorizon there was no level place, no open water, no pathway.The view to the southward resembled a tempest-tossed ocean suddenlyfrozen.One of these ridgesBennett had just climbed, and upon it he now stood.Even for him, unencumbered, carrying no weight, the climb had beendifficult; more than once he had slippedand fallen. At times he hadbeen obliged to go forward almost on his hands and knees. And yet it wasacross that jungle of ice, that unspeakable tangle ofblue-green slabsand cakes and blocks, that the expedition must now advance, dragging itsboats, its sledges, its provisions, instruments, and baggage.Bennettstood looking. Before him lay his task. There under his eyes wasthe Enemy. Face to face with him was the titanic primal strength of achaotic world, thestupendous still force of a merciless nature, waitingcalmly, waiting silently to close upon and crush him. For a long time hestood watching. Then the great brutaljaw grew more salient than ever,the teeth set and clenched behind the close-gripped lips, the cast inthe small twinkling eyes grew suddenly more pronounced.One huge fistraised, and the arm slowly extended forward like the resistless movingof a piston. Then when his arm was at its full reach Bennett spoke asthough inanswer to the voiceless, terrible challenge of the Ice.Through his clenched teeth his words came slow and measured."But I'll break you, by God! believe me, Iwill."After a while he returned to the tent, awoke the cook, and whilebreakfast was being prepared completed his calculations for latitude,wrote up his ice-journal,and noted down the temperature and thedirection and velocity of the wind. As he was finishing, RichardFerriss, who was the chief engineer and second incommand, awoke andimmediately asked the latitude."Seventy-four-fifteen," answered Bennett without looking up."Seventy-four-fifteen," repeated Ferriss,nodding his head; "we didn'tmake much distance yesterday.""I hope we can make as much to-day," returned Bennett grimly as he putaway hisobservation-journal and note-books."How's the ice to the south'ard?""Bad; wake the men."After breakfast and while the McClintocks were being loaded BennettsentFerriss on ahead to choose a road through and over the ridges. It wasdreadful work. For two hours Ferriss wandered about amid the broken iceall buthopelessly bewildered. But at length, to his great satisfaction,he beheld a fairly open stretch about a quarter of a mile in lengthlying out to the southwest and nottoo far out of the expedition's lineof march. Some dozen ridges would have to be crossed before this levelwas reached; but there was no help for it, so Ferrissplanted his flagswhere the heaps of ice-blocks seemed least impracticable and returnedtoward the camp. It had already been broken, and on his way he mettheentire expedition involved in the intricacies of the first rough ice.All of the eighteen dogs had been harnessed to the number two sledge,that carried thewhaleboat and the major part of the provisions, andevery man of the party, Bennett included, was straining at thehaul-ropes with the dogs. Foot by foot thesledge came over the ridge,grinding and lurching among the ice-blocks; then, partly by guiding,partly by lifting, it was piloted down the slope, only in the endtoescape from all control and come crashing downward among the dogs,jolting one of the medicine chests from its lashings and butting itsnose heavily againstthe foot of the next hummock immediately beyond.But the men scrambled to their places again, the medicine chest wasreplaced, and Muck Tu, the Esquimaudog-master, whipped forward hisdogs. Ferriss, too, laid hold. The next hummock was surmounted, the dogspanting, and the men, even in that icy air, reeking


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<title>Klute</title>
INT. DINING ROOM - TOM GRUNEMANN HOUSE - DAYCLOSE SHOT of TOM GRUNEMANN,attractive youngexecutive, sitting at the head of the dining roomtable carving a turkey for Thanksgiving Day dinner.There are joyous sounds of celebration. TheCAMERAPANS around the table revealing the happy familyand guests. Among them are KLUTE and CABLE.Camera stops at Mrs. Grunemann who sits at the footofthe table opposite her husband. She smilesacross at him with pleasure. We cut to TomGrunemann smiling back at her. We cut back to acloseup of Mrs.Grunemann  looking back at herhusband with love. We cut back to Tom Grunemann'schair - only now it is empty. The joyous soundsdisappear on this cut. Itappears that TomGrunemann has disappeared before our eyes. Onemoment he is there, and the next moment he is gone.The camera pans back down the table,only now it isempty except for Grunemann's children and Mrs.Grunemann. She is now dressed in something dark.She and the three children sit eating anothermealin emptiness. She has changed from a joyous womanto a woman bereaved.INT. RESEARCH PLANT: ON ROSS - DAYThe industrial frontier. SPECIALAGENT ROSS stepsinto frame, glancing (perhaps idly, a littleimpatiently) in this direction at some loudindustrial goings-on just beyond camera, thenreturnstoward GROUP.The group includes CABLE and a YOUNGER FBI AGENTwith clipboard, to whom KLUTE is supplyingpreliminary data. KLUTE's manner is


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<title>THE WONDERBOYS</title>
                            WONDER BOYS                BASED ON THE NOVEL BY MICHAELCHABON                       Screenplay/Steve Kloves January 21, 1999 (Pink Revision) January 15, 1999 (Blue Revision) December 18,1998 All IS A BLUR. . ....then WORDS appear, twisting and vaguely transparent, reflected on the window GRADY TRIPP stands before as he reads from a sheaf of NEATLY-TYPEDPAGES. GRADY 'The young girl sat perfectly still in the confessional...1 INT. CLASSROOM - UNIVERSITY - AFTERNOON Grady--45-year-oldnovelist, professor, and insomniac--is in the midst of reading a story to the dozen college STUDENTS who make up his Advanced Writing Workshop.GRADY ...listening to her father's boots scrape like chalk on the ancient steps of the church, then grow faint, then disappear altogether.' As he finishes,GRADY ponders a PAIR of MAINTENANCE MEN, perched on ladders in the quad below, stringing a LARGE BANNER between two bare trees. The BANNERreads: WELCOME TO WORDFEST GRADY turns, peers at his students. They look as if they've been on a field trip to the DMV. GRADY (cont'd) (a wave ofthe pages) So. .Anyone? A GIRL with jet-black hair turns to a PALE YOUNG MAN sitting at a desk in the back of the classroom. He is JAMES LEER, 19. Like GRADYa moment before, he is staring out the window. CARRIE MCWHIRTY  Let me get this straight. The girl with the big lips is depressed because, each night,


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                                        CHINATOWN                                        Written by                                       RobertTowne                               FULL SCREEN PHOTOGRAPH Grainy but unmistakably a man and                woman making love. Photograph shakes.SOUND of a man MOANING                in anguish. The photograph is dropped, REVEALING ANOTHER,                MORE compromising one. Then another, andanother. More moans.                                     CURLY'S VOICE                              (crying out)                         Oh, no.               INT. GITTES'OFFICE               CURLY drops the photos on Gittes' desk. Curly towers over                GITTES and sweats heavily through his workman's clothes,his                breathing progressively more labored. A drop plunks on Gittes'                shiny desk top.               Gittes notes it. A fan whiffs overhead. Gittesglances up at                it. He looks cool and brisk in a white linen suit despite                the heat. Never taking his eyes off Curly, he lights a                cigaretteusing a lighter with a "nail" on his desk.               Curly, with another anguished sob, turns and rams his fist                into the wall, kicking the wastebasket ashe does. He starts                to sob again, slides along the wall where his fist has left                a noticeable dent and its impact has sent the signedphotos                of several movie stars askew.               Curly slides on into the blinds and sinks to his knees. He                is weeping heavily now, and is insuch pain that he actually                bites into the blinds.               Gittes doesn't move from his


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                                    ALL THE KING'S MEN                                        Written by                                      RobertRossen                                  Based on the novel by                                    Robert Penn Warren                                      SHOOTINGDRAFT                                           1949                               Interior: Jack Burden's Desk, The Chronicle, Day               Jack Burden islooking over the morning edition of "The                Chronicle." He reads the society page. A man enters and leans                across hisdesk.                                     MAN                         Burden! Jack Burden! The boss wants                          to see you.               He folds his paper,rises, and walks by the presses into                Madison's office.               Interior: Madison's Office, Day               Madison, the city editor, is correcting copy athis desk.                                     MADISON                         Hey, Jack, ever hear of a fellow                          called WillieStark?                                     JACK                         No. Who'd he shoot?                                     MADISON                         Oh, county...uh... treasurer, or                          something like that.                                     JACK                         What's so special abouthim?                                     MADISON                         They say he's an honest man. What I                          want you to do is to hop intoyour                          car...                                     JACK                         Why, you promised me a


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<title>THE TIME MACHINE- by David Duncan</title>
                              H. G. Wells'                    T H E   T I M E   M A C H I N E                        A George PalProduction                               Screenplay                                   by                              DAVID DUNCAN     Draft revised thru 6-25-59     FADEIN:     M.G.M. TRADEMARK                                       A.1     Leo the Lion ROARS over the FANFARE,then                                                 FADE OUT:     GLIDING OBJECTS IN A WIDE DARK VOID - (ANIMATION)             Out of the SILENTdarkness a short white       A             fluted column surmounted by a SUNDIAL             appears.  It floats in, waveringly, until             it becomes clearly visible,then drifts             off as though moving in some huge orbit.             Next an HOURGLASS floats in from the left      B             of the screen.  The faint HISSINGOF             RUNNING SAND breaks the stillness of space.             As the hourglass glides across the screen,     C             it is met by a GREEK WATER CLOCKaccompanied             by the sound OF DRIPPING WATER.             A MEDIEVAL CLOCK with weights arises as its    D             horizontal escapement TICKSLOUDLY.  Mean-             while the sundial, hourglass and water clock             return, drifting at diverse angles across             the screen.     THE SOUND of thevarious devices continues to MOUNT.             A FIGURE wheels past, with the face of a       E             clock and the body carved like a drummer             of the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, The American Senator, by Anthony TrollopeThis 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: The American SenatorAuthor: Anthony TrollopeRelease Date: May 4, 2002  [eBook #5118]Most recently updated: April 8,2011Language: English***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AMERICAN SENATOR***E-text prepared by Tapio Riikonenand revised by Joseph E.Loewenstein, M.D.THE AMERICAN SENATORbyAnthony TrollopeFirst published in serial form in _Temple Bar Magazine_ May, 1876,through July, 1877, and inbook form in 1877 by Chapman and Hall.CONTENTS   VOLUME I.          I. DILLSBOROUGH.         II. THE MORTON FAMILY.        III. THE MASTERSFAMILY.         IV. THE DILLSBOROUGH CLUB.          V. REGINALD MORTON.         VI. NOT IN LOVE.        VII. THE WALK HOME.       VIII. THE PARAGON'S PARTYAT BRAGTON.         IX. THE OLD KENNELS.          X. GOARLY'S REVENGE.         XI. FROM IMPINGTON GORSE.        XII. ARABELLA TREFOIL.       XIII. ATBRAGTON.        XIV. THE DILLSBOROUGH FEUD.         XV. A FIT COMPANION,--FOR ME AND MY SISTERS.        XVI. MR. GOTOBED'S PHILANTHROPY.       XVII.LORD RUFFORD'S INVITATION.      XVIII. THE ATTORNEY'S FAMILY IS DISTURBED.        XIX. "WHO VALUED THE GEESE?"         XX. THERE ARECONVENANCES.        XXI. THE FIRST EVENING AT RUFFORD HALL.       XXII. JEMIMA.      XXIII. POOR CANEBACK.       XXIV. THE BALL.        XXV. THE LASTMORNING AT RUFFORD HALL.       XXVI. GIVE ME SIX MONTHS.      XXVII. "WONDERFUL BIRD!"   VOLUME II.          I. MOUNSER GREEN.         II. THESENATOR'S LETTER.        III. AT CHELTENHAM.         IV. THE RUFFORD CORRESPONDENCE.          V. "IT IS A LONG WAY."         VI. THE BEGINNING OFPERSECUTION.        VII. MARY'S LETTER.       VIII. CHOWTON FARM FOR SALE.         IX. MISTLETOE.          X. HOW THINGS WERE ARRANGED.         XI. "YOUARE SO SEVERE."        XII. THE DAY AT PELTRY.       XIII. LORD RUFFORD WANTS TO SEE A HORSE.        XIV. THE SENATOR IS BADLY TREATED.         XV. MR.MAINWARING'S LITTLE DINNER.        XVI. PERSECUTION.       XVII. "PARTICULARLY PROUD OF YOU."      XVIII. LORD RUFFORD MAKES UP HIS MIND.        XIX.IT CANNOT BE ARRANGED.         XX. "BUT THERE IS SOME ONE."        XXI. THE DINNER AT THE BUSH.       XXII. MISS TREFOIL'S DECISION.      XXIII. "INTHESE DAYS ONE CAN'T MAKE A MAN MARRY."       XXIV. THE SENATOR'S SECOND LETTER.        XXV. PROVIDENCE INTERFERES.       XXVI. LADY USHANT ATBRAGTON.      XXVII. ARABELLA AGAIN AT BRAGTON.   VOLUME III.          I. "I HAVE TOLD HIM EVERYTHING."         II. "NOW WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TOSAY?"        III. MRS. MORTON RETURNS.         IV. THE TWO OLD LADIES.          V. THE LAST EFFORT.         VI. AGAIN AT MISTLETOE.        VII. THE SUCCESSOF LADY AUGUSTUS.       VIII. "WE SHALL KILL EACH OTHER."         IX. CHANGES AT BRAGTON.          X. THE WILL.         XI. THE NEW MINISTER.        XII. "IMUST GO."       XIII. IN THE PARK.        XIV. LORD RUFFORD'S MODEL FARM.         XV. SCROBBY'S TRIAL.        XVI. AT LAST.       XVII. "MY OWN, OWNHUSBAND."      XVIII. "BID HIM BE A MAN."        XIX. "IS IT TANTI?"         XX. BENEDICT.        XXI. ARABELLA'S SUCCESS.       XXII. THE WEDDING.      XXIII.THE SENATOR'S LECTURE.--NO. I.       XXIV. THE SENATOR'S LECTURE.--NO. II.        XXV. THE LAST DAYS OF MARY MASTERS.       XXVI. CONCLUSION.VOLUMEI.CHAPTER I.DILLSBOROUGH.I never could understand why anybody should ever have begun to liveat Dillsborough, or why the population there should havebeen at anytime recruited by new comers. That a man with a family should clingto a house in which he has once established himself is intelligible.The butcher whosupplied Dillsborough, or the baker, or theironmonger, though he might not drive what is called a roaring trade,nevertheless found himself probably able to live,and might wellhesitate before he would encounter the dangers of a more energeticlocality. But how it came to pass that he first got himself toDillsborough, or hisfather, or his grandfather before him, hasalways been a mystery to me. The town has no attractions, and neverhad any. It does not stand on a bed of coal andhas no connectionwith iron. It has no water peculiarly adapted for beer, or fordyeing, or for the cure of maladies. It is not surrounded by beautyof scenery strongenough to bring tourists and holiday travellers.There is no cathedral there to form, with its bishops, prebendaries,and minor canons, the nucleus of a clericalcircle. It manufacturesnothing specially. It has no great horse fair, or cattle fair, oreven pig market of special notoriety. Every Saturday farmers andgraziers andbuyers of corn and sheep do congregate in a sleepyfashion about the streets, but Dillsborough has no character of itsown, even as a market town. Its chief gloryis its parish church,which is ancient and inconvenient, having not as yet received any ofthose modern improvements which have of late become commonthroughoutEngland; but its parish church, though remarkable, is hardlycelebrated. The town consists chiefly of one street which is over amile long, with a squareor market-place in the middle, round whicha few lanes with queer old names are congregated, and a second smallopen space among these lanes, in which thechurch stands. As youpass along the street north-west, away from the railway station andfrom London, there is a steep hill, beginning to rise just beyondthemarket-place. Up to that point it is the High Street, thenceit is called Bullock's Hill. Beyond that you come to NorringtonRoad,--Norrington being the next town,distant from Dillsboroughabout twelve miles. Dillsborough, however, stands in the county ofRufford, whereas at the top of Bullock's Hill you enter the countyofUfford, of which Norrington is the assize town. The Dillsboroughpeople are therefore divided, some two thousand five hundred ofthem belonging to Rufford, andthe remaining five hundred to theneighbouring county. This accident has given rise to not a fewfeuds, Ufford being a large county, with pottery, and ribbons,andwatches going on in the farther confines; whereas Rufford issmall and thoroughly agricultural. The men at the top of Bullock'sHill are therefore disposed to thinkthemselves better than theirfellow-townsfolks, though they are small in number and not speciallythriving in their circumstances.At every interval of ten years,when the census is taken, thepopulation of Dillsborough is always found to have fallen off in someslight degree. For a few months after the publication of thefiguresa slight tinge of melancholy comes upon the town. The landlord of theBush Inn, who is really an enterprising man in his way and who haslooked about inevery direction for new sources of business, becomestaciturn for a while and forgets to smile upon comers; Mr. Ribbs,the butcher, tells his wife that it is out of thequestion that sheand the children should take that long-talked-of journey to thesea-coast; and Mr. Gregory Masters, the well-known old-establishedattorney ofDillsborough, whispers to some confidential friend thathe might as well take down his plate and shut up his house. But in amonth or two all that is forgotten, andnew hopes spring up even inDillsborough; Mr. Runciman at the Bush is putting up new stables forhunting-horses, that being the special trade for which he nowfindsthat there is an opening; Mrs. Ribbs is again allowed to suggestMare-Slocumb; and Mr. Masters goes on as he has done for the lastforty years, making thebest he can of a decreasing business.Dillsborough is built chiefly of brick, and is, in its own way,solid enough. The Bush, which in the time of the presentlandlord'sfather was one of the best posting inns on the road, is not onlysubstantial, but almost handsome. A broad coach way, cut through themiddle of thehouse, leads into a spacious, well-kept, clean yard,and on each side of the coach way there are bay windows looking intothe street,--the one belonging to thecommercial parlour, and theother to the so-called coffee-room. But the coffee-room has in truthfallen away from its former purposes, and is now used for afarmer'sordinary on market days, and other similar purposes. Travellers whorequire the use of a public sitting-room must all congregate in thecommercial parlourat the Bush. So far the interior of the house hasfallen from its past greatness. But the exterior is maintained withmuch care. The brickwork up to the eaves is wellpointed, fresh, andcomfortable to look at. In front of the carriage-way swings on twomassive supports the old sign of the Bush, as to which it may bedoubtedwhether even Mr. Runciman himself knows that it has swungthere, or been displayed in some fashion, since it was the custom forthe landlord to beat up wine tofreshen it before it was given to thecustomers to drink. The church, too, is of brick--though the towerand chancel are of stone. The attorney's house is of brick,whichshall not be more particularly described now as many of the sceneswhich these pages will have to describe were acted there; and almostthe entire HighStreet in the centre of the town was brick also.But the most remarkable house in Dillsborough was one standing in ashort thoroughfare called Hobbs Gate, leadingdown by the side of theBush Inn from the market-place to Church Square, as it is called. Asyou pass down towards the church this house is on the right hand,andit occupies with its garden the whole space between the market-placeand Church Square. But though the house enjoys the privilege of alarge garden,--solarge that the land being in the middle of a townwould be of great value were it not that Dillsborough is in itsdecadence,--still it stands flush up to the street uponwhich thefront door opens. It has an imposing flight of stone steps guardedby iron rails leading up to it, and on each side of the door thereis a row of threewindows, and on the two upper stories rows ofseven windows. Over the door there is a covering, on which there aregrotesquely-formed, carved wooden faces;and over the centre of eachwindow, let into the brickwork, is a carved stone. There are alsonumerous underground windows, sunk below the earth andprotectedby iron railings. Altogether the house is one which cannot fail toattract attention; and in the brickwork is clearly marked the date,1701,--not the verybest period for English architecture as regardsbeauty, but one in which walls and roofs, ceilings and buttresses,were built more substantially than they are to-day.This was the onlyhouse in Dillsborough which had a name of its own, and it was calledHoppet Hall, the Dillsborough chronicles telling that it had beenoriginallybuilt for and inhabited by the Hoppet family. The onlyHoppet now left in Dillsborough is old Joe Hoppet, the ostler at theBush; and the house, as was well known,had belonged to some memberof the Morton family for the last hundred years at least. The gardenand ground it stands upon comprise three acres, all of whicharesurrounded by a high brick wall, which is supposed to be coevalwith the house. The best Ribston pippins,--some people say the onlyreal Ribston pippins,--in all


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                           LINCOLN                          Written by                         TonyKushner                                                                                Based in Part on           Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of AbrahamLincoln           By Doris Kearns Goodwin                                                                                Final ShootingScript                                                     December 20, 2011          EXT. BATTLEFIELD, JENKINS' FERRY, ARKANSAS -DAY                                   Heavy grey skies hang over a flooded field, the water two          feet deep. Cannons and carts, half-submerged andtilted,          their wheels trapped in the mud below the surface, are still          yoked to dead and dying horses and oxen.                                   A terrible battleis taking place; two infantry companies,          Negro Union soldiers and white Confederate soldiers, knee-          deep in the water, staggering because of themud beneath,          fight each other hand-to-hand, with rifles, bayonets,          pistols, knives and fists. There's no discipline or strategy,          nothingdepersonalized: it's mayhem and each side intensely          hates the other. Both have resolved to take no prisoners.                                    HAROLDGREEN (V.O.)           Some of us was in the Second Kansas           Colored. We fought the rebs at           Jenkins' Ferry last April, just           after they'dkilled every Negro           soldier they captured at Poison           Springs.                                                            EXT. PARADE GROUNDS ADJACENT TO