ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Riders of the Purple Sage, by Zane GreyThis 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: Riders of the Purple SageAuthor: Zane GreyPosting Date: November 7, 2009  [Etext #1300]Release Date: April, 2000Last updated:February 3, 2011Last updated: June 23, 2013Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE ***Produced byBill Brewer and Rick FaneRIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGEBy Zane GreyCHAPTER I. LASSITERA sharp clip-crop of iron-shod hoofs deadened and died away, andcloudsof yellow dust drifted from under the cottonwoods out over the sage.Jane Withersteen gazed down the wide purple slope with dreamy andtroubled eyes. Arider had just left her and it was his message thatheld her thoughtful and almost sad, awaiting the churchmen who werecoming to resent and attack her right tobefriend a Gentile.She wondered if the unrest and strife that had lately come to thelittle village of Cottonwoods was to involve her. And then shesighed,remembering that her father had founded this remotest border settlementof southern Utah and that he had left it to her. She owned all theground andmany of the cottages. Withersteen House was hers, and thegreat ranch, with its thousands of cattle, and the swiftest horses ofthe sage. To her belonged AmberSpring, the water which gave verdureand beauty to the village and made living possible on that wild purpleupland waste. She could not escape being involved bywhatever befellCottonwoods.That year, 1871, had marked a change which had been gradually comingin the lives of the peace-loving Mormons of the border.Glaze--StoneBridge--Sterling, villages to the north, had risen against theinvasion of Gentile settlers and the forays of rustlers. There had beenopposition to theone and fighting with the other. And now Cottonwoodshad begun to wake and bestir itself and grown hard.Jane prayed that the tranquillity and sweetness of herlife would not bepermanently disrupted. She meant to do so much more for her people thanshe had done. She wanted the sleepy quiet pastoral days to lastalways.Trouble between the Mormons and the Gentiles of the community wouldmake her unhappy. She was Mormon-born, and she was a friend to poorandunfortunate Gentiles. She wished only to go on doing good and beinghappy. And she thought of what that great ranch meant to her. She lovedit all--the grove ofcottonwoods, the old stone house, the amber-tintedwater, and the droves of shaggy, dusty horses and mustangs, the sleek,clean-limbed, blooded racers, and thebrowsing herds of cattle and thelean, sun-browned riders of the sage.While she waited there she forgot the prospect of untoward change. Thebray of a lazy burrobroke the afternoon quiet, and it was comfortinglysuggestive of the drowsy farmyard, and the open corrals, and the greenalfalfa fields. Her clear sight intensifiedthe purple sage-slope as itrolled before her. Low swells of prairie-like ground sloped up tothe west. Dark, lonely cedar-trees, few and far between, stoodoutstrikingly, and at long distances ruins of red rocks. Farther on, up thegradual slope, rose a broken wall, a huge monument, looming dark purpleand stretchingits solitary, mystic way, a wavering line that fadedin the north. Here to the westward was the light and color and beauty.Northward the slope descended to a dimline of canyons from which rosean up-flinging of the earth, not mountainous, but a vast heave of purpleuplands, with ribbed and fan-shaped walls, castle-crownedcliffs, andgray escarpments. Over it all crept the lengthening, waning afternoonshadows.The rapid beat of hoofs recalled Jane Withersteen to the question athand.A group of riders cantered up the lane, dismounted, and threwtheir bridles. They were seven in number, and Tull, the leader, a tall,dark man, was an elder ofJane's church."Did you get my message?" he asked, curtly."Yes," replied Jane."I sent word I'd give that rider Venters half an hour to come down tothe village. Hedidn't come.""He knows nothing of it;" said Jane. "I didn't tell him. I've beenwaiting here for you.""Where is Venters?""I left him in the courtyard.""Here, Jerry,"called Tull, turning to his men, "take the gang and fetchVenters out here if you have to rope him."The dusty-booted and long-spurred riders clanked noisily intothe groveof cottonwoods and disappeared in the shade."Elder Tull, what do you mean by this?" demanded Jane. "If you mustarrest Venters you might have thecourtesy to wait till he leaves myhome. And if you do arrest him it will be adding insult to injury. It'sabsurd to accuse Venters of being mixed up in that shootingfray in thevillage last night. He was with me at the time. Besides, he let me takecharge of his guns. You're only using this as a pretext. What do youmean to do toVenters?""I'll tell you presently," replied Tull. "But first tell me why youdefend this worthless rider?""Worthless!" exclaimed Jane, indignantly. "He's nothing of thekind.He was the best rider I ever had. There's not a reason why I shouldn'tchampion him and every reason why I should. It's no little shame to me,Elder Tull, thatthrough my friendship he has roused the enmity of mypeople and become an outcast. Besides I owe him eternal gratitude forsaving the life of little Fay.""I'veheard of your love for Fay Larkin and that you intend to adopther. But--Jane Withersteen, the child is a Gentile!""Yes. But, Elder, I don't love the Mormon childrenany less because Ilove a Gentile child. I shall adopt Fay if her mother will give her tome.""I'm not so much against that. You can give the child Mormonteaching,"said Tull. "But I'm sick of seeing this fellow Venters hang around you.I'm going to put a stop to it. You've so much love to throw away onthese beggarsof Gentiles that I've an idea you might love Venters."Tull spoke with the arrogance of a Mormon whose power could not bebrooked and with the passion of a manin whom jealousy had kindled aconsuming fire."Maybe I do love him," said Jane. She felt both fear and anger stir herheart. "I'd never thought of that. Poor fellow!he certainly needs someone to love him.""This'll be a bad day for Venters unless you deny that," returned Tull,grimly.Tull's men appeared under the cottonwoodsand led a young man out intothe lane. His ragged clothes were those of an outcast. But he stood talland straight, his wide shoulders flung back, with the musclesof hisbound arms rippling and a blue flame of defiance in the gaze he bent onTull.For the first time Jane Withersteen felt Venters's real spirit. Shewondered if shewould love this splendid youth. Then her emotion cooledto the sobering sense of the issue at stake."Venters, will you leave Cottonwoods at once and forever?"asked Tull,tensely."Why?" rejoined the rider."Because I order it."Venters laughed in cool disdain.The red leaped to Tull's dark cheek."If you don't go it means yourruin," he said, sharply."Ruin!" exclaimed Venters, passionately. "Haven't you already ruined me?What do you call ruin? A year ago I was a rider. I had horses andcattleof my own. I had a good name in Cottonwoods. And now when I come intothe village to see this woman you set your men on me. You hound me. Youtrailme as if I were a rustler. I've no more to lose--except my life.""Will you leave Utah?""Oh! I know," went on Venters, tauntingly, "it galls you, the idea ofbeautifulJane Withersteen being friendly to a poor Gentile. You wanther all yourself. You're a wiving Mormon. You have use for her--andWithersteen House and AmberSpring and seven thousand head of cattle!"Tull's hard jaw protruded, and rioting blood corded the veins of hisneck."Once more. Will you go?""NO!""Then I'll haveyou whipped within an inch of your life," replied Tull,harshly. "I'll turn you out in the sage. And if you ever come backyou'll get worse."Venters's agitated facegrew coldly set and the bronze changedJane impulsively stepped forward. "Oh! Elder Tull!" she cried. "Youwon't do that!"Tull lifted a shaking finger towardher."That'll do from you. Understand, you'll not be allowed to hold this boyto a friendship that's offensive to your Bishop. Jane Withersteen, yourfather left youwealth and power. It has turned your head. You haven'tyet come to see the place of Mormon women. We've reasoned with you,borne with you. We've patientlywaited. We've let you have your fling,which is more than I ever saw granted to a Mormon woman. But you haven'tcome to your senses. Now, once for all, youcan't have any furtherfriendship with Venters. He's going to be whipped, and he's got to leaveUtah!""Oh! Don't whip him! It would be dastardly!" implored Jane,with slowcertainty of her failing courage.Tull always blunted her spirit, and she grew conscious that she hadfeigned a boldness which she did not possess. Heloomed up now indifferent guise, not as a jealous suitor, but embodying the mysteriousdespotism she had known from childhood--the power of hercreed."Venters, will you take your whipping here or would you rather go outin the sage?" asked Tull. He smiled a flinty smile that was morethan inhuman, yetseemed to give out of its dark aloofness a gleam ofrighteousness."I'll take it here--if I must," said Venters. "But by God!--Tull you'dbetter kill me outright. That'llbe a dear whipping for you and yourpraying Mormons. You'll make me another Lassiter!"The strange glow, the austere light which radiated from Tull's face,mighthave been a holy joy at the spiritual conception of exalted duty.But there was something more in him, barely hidden, a something personaland sinister, a deep ofhimself, an engulfing abyss. As his religiousmood was fanatical and inexorable, so would his physical hate bemerciless."Elder, I--I repent my words," Janefaltered. The religion in her, thelong habit of obedience, of humility, as well as agony of fear, spoke inher voice. "Spare the boy!" she whispered."You can't savehim now," replied Tull stridently.Her head was bowing to the inevitable. She was grasping the truth,when suddenly there came, in inward constriction, ahardening of gentleforces within her breast. Like a steel bar it was stiffening all thathad been soft and weak in her. She felt a birth in her of something newandunintelligible. Once more her strained gaze sought the sage-slopes.Jane Withersteen loved that wild and purple wilderness. In timesof sorrow it had been herstrength, in happiness its beauty was hercontinual delight. In her extremity she found herself murmuring, "Whencecometh my help!" It was a prayer, as if forthfrom those lonely purplereaches and walls of red and clefts of blue might ride a fearless man,neither creed-bound nor creed-mad, who would hold up a restraininghandin the faces of her ruthless people.The restless movements of Tull's men suddenly quieted down. Thenfollowed a low whisper, a rustle, a sharpexclamation."Look!" said one, pointing to the west."A rider!"Jane Withersteen wheeled and saw a horseman, silhouetted against thewestern sky, coming ridingout of the sage. He had ridden down from theleft, in the golden glare of the sun, and had been unobserved till closeat hand. An answer to her prayer!"Do youknow him? Does any one know him?" questioned Tull, hurriedly.His men looked and looked, and one by one shook their heads."He's come from far," said


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                                                                     IT HAPPENED ONENIGHT                                                              Written by Robert previous hit Riskin                                                                                based on a story by Samuel Hopkins Adams                                                                                The HARBOR at Miami Beach fades in,                          providing quick views ofyachts, aquaplanes,                          and luxurious ship-craft lying at anchor                          in the calm, tranquil waters of tropical                          Florida.This dissolves to the NAME                          PLATE on the side of a yacht, reading                          "ELSPETH II," and this in turn to a                          YACHTCORRIDOR where a steward is standing                          in front of a cabin door, near a small                          collapsible table upon which thereis                          a tray of steaming food. He lifts lids                          and examines the contents. A heavy-set                          sailor stands guard near thecabin door.[1]                                                                                STEWARD                                                              Fine! Fine!


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                                                                                INTERSTELLAR                                                                                Writtenby                                                           Jonathan Nolan                                                                                STORYBY                                              Jonathan Nolan, Kip Thorne & LyndaObst                                                                                MARCH12 2008          SPACE.                                   But not the dark lonely corner of it we're used to. This is          a glittering inferno -- the center of adistant galaxy.                                   Suddenly, something TEARS past at incredible speed: a NEUTRON          STAR. It SMASHES headlong through everythingit encounters...          planets, stars. Can anything stop this juggernaut?                                   Yes. Something looms at the heart of the galaxy,hidden          inside the blinding starlight, a dark flaw in the fabric of          existence itself: a BLACK HOLE.                                   The neutron star is pulled intothe black hole's swirl,          spiraling closer and closer to destruction. Finally, it          contacts the hole's edge and EXPLODES.                                   TheEXPLOSION is so powerful that it sends shock waves into          the fabric of space-time itself. We ride one of these waves,          racing back out from the blackhole.                                   Suddenly, a portion of the wave disappears down a crystal-          like hole, emerging in a much darker region of the universe


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, Cousin Henry, by Anthony TrollopeThis 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: Cousin HenryAuthor: Anthony TrollopeRelease Date: January 1, 2008  [eBook #24103]Language: English***START OF THE PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK COUSIN HENRY***E-text prepared by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.COUSIN HENRYbyANTHONY TROLLOPEFirst published in serial form in the_Manchester Weekly Times_ andthe _North British Weekly Mail_ in the spring of 1879 and in bookform in October, 1879CONTENTS       I. Uncle Indefer      II.Isabel Brodrick     III. Cousin Henry      IV. The Squire's Death       V. Preparing for the Funeral      VI. Mr Apjohn's Explanation     VII. Looking for the Will    VIII.The Reading of the Will      IX. Alone at Llanfeare       X. Cousin Henry Dreams a Dream      XI. Isabel at Hereford     XII. Mr Owen    XIII. The _CarmarthenHerald_     XIV. An Action for Libel      XV. Cousin Henry Makes Another Attempt     XVI. Again at Hereford    XVII. Mr Cheekey   XVIII. Cousin Henry Goes toCarmarthen     XIX. Mr Apjohn Sends for Assistance      XX. Doubts     XXI. Mr Apjohn's Success    XXII. How Cousin Henry Was Let Off Easily   XXIII. Isabel'sPetition    XXIV. ConclusionCHAPTER IUncle Indefer"I have a conscience, my dear, on this matter," said an old gentlemanto a young lady, as the two were sittingin the breakfast parlour ofa country house which looked down from the cliffs over the sea on thecoast of Carmarthenshire."And so have I, Uncle Indefer; and asmy conscience is backed by myinclination, whereas yours is not--""You think that I shall give way?""I did not mean that.""What then?""If I could only make youunderstand how very strong is myinclination, or disinclination--how impossible to be conquered,then--""What next?""Then you would know that I could never giveway, as you call it, andyou would go to work with your own conscience to see whether it beimperative with you or not. You may be sure of this,--I shall neversaya word to you in opposition to your conscience. If there be aword to be spoken it must come from yourself."There was a long pause in the conversation, a silencefor an hour,during which the girl went in and out of the room and settled herselfdown at her work. Then the old man went back abruptly to the subjectthey haddiscussed. "I shall obey my conscience.""You ought to do so, Uncle Indefer. What should a man obey but hisconscience?""Though it will break my heart.""No; no,no!""And will ruin you.""That is a flea's bite. I can brave my ruin easily, but not yourbroken heart.""Why should there be either, Isabel?""Nay, sir; have you notsaid but now, because of our consciences?Not to save your heart from breaking,--though I think your heartis dearer to me than anything else in the world,--couldI marrymy cousin Henry. We must die together, both of us, you and I, orlive broken-hearted, or what not, sooner than that. Would I not doanything possible atyour bidding?""I used to think so.""But it is impossible for a young woman with a respect for herselfsuch as I have to submit herself to a man that she loathes. Doasyour conscience bids you with the old house. Shall I be less tenderto you while you live because I shall have to leave the place whenyou are dead? Shall Iaccuse you of injustice or unkindness inmy heart? Never! All that is only an outside circumstance to me,comparatively of little moment. But to be the wife of aman Idespise!" Then she got up and left the room.A month passed by before the old man returned to the subject, whichhe did seated in the same room, at thesame hour of the day,--atabout four o'clock, when the dinner things had been removed."Isabel," he said, "I cannot help myself.""As to what, Uncle Indefer?" Sheknew very well what was the matterin which, as he said, he could not help himself. Had there beenanything in which his age had wanted assistance from heryouth therewould have been no hesitation between them; no daughter was ever moretender; no father was ever more trusting. But on this subject itwasnecessary that he should speak more plainly before she could reply tohim."As to your cousin and the property.""Then in God's name do not trouble yourselffurther in looking forhelp where there is none to be had. You mean that the estate ought togo to a man and not to a woman?""It ought to go to a Jones.""I am nota Jones, nor likely to become a Jones.""You are as near to me as he is,--and so much dearer!""But not on that account a Jones. My name is Isabel Brodrick. Awomannot born to be a Jones may have the luck to become one by marriage,but that will never be the case with me.""You should not laugh at that which is to mea duty.""Dear, dear uncle!" she said, caressing him, "if I seemed tolaugh"--and she certainly had laughed when she spoke of the luck ofbecoming a Jones--"it isonly that you may feel how little importanceI attach to it all on my own account.""But it is important,--terribly important!""Very well. Then go to work with twothings in your mind fixed asfate. One is that you must leave Llanfeare to your nephew HenryJones, and the other that I will not marry your nephew HenryJones.When it is all settled it will be just as though the old place wereentailed, as it used to be.""I wish it were.""So do I, if it would save you trouble.""But it isn'tthe same;--it can't be the same. In getting back theland your grandfather sold I have spent the money I had saved foryou.""It shall be all the same to me, and Iwill take pleasure in thinkingthat the old family place shall remain as you would have it. I can beproud of the family though I can never bear the name.""You donot care a straw for the family.""You should not say that, Uncle Indefer. It is not true. I careenough for the family to sympathise with you altogether in whatyouare doing, but not enough for the property to sacrifice myself inorder that I might have a share in it.""I do not know why you should think so much evil ofHenry.""Do you know any reason why I should think well enough of him tobecome his wife? I do not. In marrying a man a woman should be ableto love everylittle trick belonging to him. The parings of his nailsshould be a care to her. It should be pleasant to her to serve him inthings most menial. Would it be so to me,do you think, with HenryJones?""You are always full of poetry and books.""I should be full of something very bad if I were to allow myself tostand at the altar withhim. Drop it, Uncle Indefer. Get it out ofyour mind as a thing quite impossible. It is the one thing I can'tand won't do, even for you. It is the one thing that youought not toask me to do. Do as you like with the property,--as you think right.""It is not as I like.""As your conscience bids you, then; and I with myself, which istheonly little thing that I have in the world, will do as I like, or asmy conscience bids me."These last words she spoke almost roughly, and as she said them shelefthim, walking out of the room with an air of offended pride.But in this there was a purpose. If she were hard to him, hard andobstinate in her determination, thenwould he be enabled to be soalso to her in his determination, with less of pain to himself. Shefelt it to be her duty to teach him that he was justified in doingwhathe liked with his property, because she intended to do whatshe liked with herself. Not only would she not say a word towardsdissuading him from this change inhis old intentions, but she wouldmake the change as little painful to him as possible by teaching himto think that it was justified by her own manner to him.Forthere was a change, not only in his mind, but in his declaredintentions. Llanfeare had belonged to Indefer Joneses for manygenerations. When the late Squire haddied, now twenty years ago,there had been remaining out of ten children only one, the eldest,to whom the property now belonged. Four or five coming insuccessionafter him had died without issue. Then there had been a Henry Jones,who had gone away and married, had become the father of the HenryJones abovementioned, and had then also departed. The youngest, adaughter, had married an attorney named Brodrick, and she also haddied, having no other child butIsabel. Mr Brodrick had marriedagain, and was now the father of a large family, living at Hereford,where he carried on his business. He was not very "well-to-do"in theworld. The new Mrs Brodrick had preferred her own babies to Isabel,and Isabel when she was fifteen years of age had gone to her bacheloruncle atLlanfeare. There she had lived for the last ten years,making occasional visits to her father at Hereford.Mr Indefer Jones, who was now between seventy andeighty years old,was a gentleman who through his whole life had been disturbed byreflections, fears, and hopes as to the family property on which hehad beenborn, on which he had always lived, in possession of whichhe would certainly die, and as to the future disposition of whichit was his lot in life to be altogetherresponsible. It had beenentailed upon him before his birth in his grandfather's time, whenhis father was about to be married. But the entail had not beencarriedon. There had come no time in which this Indefer Jones hadbeen about to be married, and the former old man having been given toextravagance, and beengenerally in want of money, had felt it morecomfortable to be without an entail. His son had occasionally beeninduced to join with him in raising money. Thus notonly since he hadhimself owned the estate, but before his father's death, there hadbeen forced upon him reflections as to the destination of Llanfeare.At fifty hehad found himself unmarried, and unlikely to marry.His brother Henry was then alive; but Henry had disgraced thefamily,--had run away with a married womanwhom he had married aftera divorce, had taken to race courses and billiard-rooms, and had beenaltogether odious to his brother Indefer. Nevertheless the boywhichhad come from this marriage, a younger Henry, had been educated athis expense, and had occasionally been received at Llanfeare. Hehad been popularwith no one there, having been found to be a slyboy, given to lying, and, as even the servants said about the place,unlike a Jones of Llanfeare. Then had comethe time in which Isabelhad been brought to Llanfeare. Henry had been sent away from Oxfordfor some offence not altogether trivial, and the Squire haddeclaredto himself and others that Llanfeare should never fall into hishands.Isabel had so endeared herself to him that before she had beentwo years in the houseshe was the young mistress of the place.Everything that she did was right in his eyes. She might haveanything that she would ask, only that she would ask fornothing. Atthis time the cousin had been taken into an office in London, and hadbecome,--so it was said of him,--a steady young man of business. Butstill, whenallowed to show himself at Llanfeare, he was unpalatableto them all--unless it might be to the old Squire. It was certainlythe case that in his office in London hemade himself useful, and itseemed that he had abandoned that practice of running into debt andhaving the bills sent down to Llanfeare which he had adoptedearly inhis career.During all this time the old Squire was terribly troubled aboutthe property. His will was always close at his hand. Till Isabelwas twenty-one this


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           byEd Solomon andJohn August  current revisions by        Zak Penn                             EARLY DRAFT                             August 11, 1999CHARLIE'SANGELS - 8/18/99FADE IN:EXT. THE BIG BLUE SKY - DAYA VIRGIN AIR 747 bursts through the clouds and levels off.INT. VIRGINAIR 747 - DAYWe move through the FIRST CLASS CABIN. It's the regularmix of first class people: OLD MONEY in Gucci enjoyingfreshly baked cookies, aMILLIONAIRE in jeans and a T-shirt, BUSINESS PEOPLE relaxing after a tough day, and......a very nervous MAN.Shifty-eyed. Alone in an aisle seat, theemergency row.We hold on him for a moment, but not for too long. Thenwe continue moving into --THE COACH SECTIONStopping at the lavatory, the"OCCUPIED" sign switches to"VACANT" and...JAMES EARL JONES(or actually, a James Earl Jones type, who for ease ofdescription, we'll simply refer toas James Earl Jones)steps out of the restroom, in full African regalia:multi-colored dashiki, mufti (it's a kind of hat), theworks. He heads up the aisle towards--THE FIRST CLASS CABINWhere he is stopped by a --                         FLIGHT ATTENDANT           I'm sorry, sir. This cabinis           restricted to first cl...Mr. Jones now removes a FIRST CLASS TICKET.                         JAMES EARL JONES           Is this what you're lookingfor?She looks at it -- a little confused as to why he's justhanding it to her now -- but then she nods. As he passes:                         FLIGHTATTENDANT           Oh, I'm sorry. Please. Is there           anything I can get you?                         JAMES EARL JONES           Scotch, blended.


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Skylark of Space, by Edward Elmer Smithand Lee Hawkins GarbyThis 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.orgTitle: The Skylark of SpaceAuthor: Edward Elmer Smith and Lee Hawkins GarbyRelease Date: March 21, 2007  [eBook #20869]Mostrecently updated April 18, 2011Language: English***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SKYLARK OF SPACE***E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, L.N. Yaddanapudi, David Dyer-Bennet, andthe Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team(http://www.pgdp.net)Note: Project Gutenberg also has anHTML version of this      file which includes the original illustrations.      See 20869-h.htm or 20869-h.zip:      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/8/6/20869/20869-h/20869-h.htm)      or      (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/8/6/20869/20869-h.zip)      +----------------------------------------------------------+      |Transcriber's note                                       |      |                                                          |      | This etext was produced from Amazing StoriesAugust,     |      | September and October 1928. Extensive research did not   |      | uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this     |      | publication wasrenewed.                                 |      |                                                          |      | Other notes and a list of corrections made will be found |      | at the end ofthe book.                                  |      +----------------------------------------------------------+THE SKYLARK OF SPACEbyEDWARD ELMER SMITHIn CollaborationwithLEE HAWKINS GARBY[Illustration: Cover Page]    +--------------------------------------+    |                                      |    | _Perhaps it is a bit unethicaland   |    | unusual for editors to voice their   |    | opinion of their own wares, but when |    | such a story as "The Skylark of      |    | Space" comes along, wejust feel as  |    | if we must shout from the housetops  |    | that this is the greatest            |    | interplanetarian and space flying    |    | story that hasappeared this year.   |    | Indeed, it probably will rank as one |    | of the great space flying stories    |    | for many years to come. The story is |    | chock full,not only of excellent    |    | science, but woven through it there  |    | is also that very rare element, love |    | and romance. This element in an      |    |interplanetarian story is often apt  |    | to be foolish, but it does not seem  |    | so in this particular story._        |    |                                      |    | _We knowso little about             |    | intra-atomic forces, that this       |    | story, improbable as it will appear  |    | in spots, will read commonplace      |    | years hence,when we have atomic     |    | engines, and when we have solved the |    | riddle of the atom._                 |    |                                      |    | _You will follow thehair-raising    |    | explorations and strange ventures    |    | into far-away worlds with bated      |    | breath, and you will be fascinated,  |    | as we were, withthe strangeness of  |    | it all._                             |    |                                      |    +--------------------------------------+CHAPTER IThe Occurrence of theImpossiblePetrified with astonishment, Richard Seaton stared after the coppersteam-bath upon which he had been electrolyzing his solution of "X," theunknownmetal. For as soon as he had removed the beaker the heavy bathhad jumped endwise from under his hand as though it were alive. It hadflown with terrific speedover the table, smashing apparatus and bottlesof chemicals on its way, and was even now disappearing through the openwindow. He seized his prism binocularsand focused them upon the flyingvessel, a speck in the distance. Through the glass he saw that it didnot fall to the ground, but continued on in a straight line,only itsrapidly diminishing size showing the enormous velocity with which it wasmoving. It grew smaller and smaller, and in a few momentsdisappearedutterly.The chemist turned as though in a trance. How was this? The copper bathhe had used for months was gone--gone like a shot, with nothing tomakeit go. Nothing, that is, except an electric cell and a few drops of theunknown solution. He looked at the empty space where it had stood, atthe broken glasscovering his laboratory table, and again stared out ofthe window.He was aroused from his stunned inaction by the entrance of his coloredlaboratory helper, andsilently motioned him to clean up the wreckage."What's happened, Doctah?" asked the dusky assistant."Search me, Dan. I wish I knew, myself," respondedSeaton, absently,lost in wonder at the incredible phenomenon of which he had just been awitness.Ferdinand Scott, a chemist employed in the next room, enteredbreezily."Hello, Dicky, thought I heard a racket in here," the newcomer remarked.Then he saw the helper busily mopping up the reeking mass of chemicals."Greatballs of fire!" he exclaimed. "What've you been celebrating? Hadan explosion? How, what, and why?""I can tell you the 'what,' and part of the 'how'," Seatonrepliedthoughtfully, "but as to the 'why,' I am completely in the dark. Here'sall I know about it," and in a few words he related the foregoingincident. Scott's faceshowed in turn interest, amazement, and pityingalarm. He took Seaton by the arm."Dick, old top, I never knew you to drink or dope, but this stuff surecame outof either a bottle or a needle. Did you see a pink serpentcarrying it away? Take my advice, old son, if you want to stay in UncleSam's service, and lay off the stuff,whatever it is. It's bad enough tocome down here so far gone that you wreck most of your apparatus andlose the rest of it, but to pull a yarn like that is going toofar. TheChief will have to ask for your resignation, sure. Why don't you take acouple of days of your leave and straighten up?"Seaton paid no attention to him,and Scott returned to his ownlaboratory, shaking his head sadly.Seaton, with his mind in a whirl, walked slowly to his desk, picked uphis blackened and batteredbriar pipe, and sat down to study out what hehad done, or what could possibly have happened, to result in such anunbelievable infraction of all the laws ofmechanics and gravitation. Heknew that he was sober and sane, that the thing had actually happened.But why? And how? All his scientific training told him that itwasimpossible. It was unthinkable that an inert mass of metal should flyoff into space without any applied force. Since it had actuallyhappened, there must havebeen applied an enormous and hitherto unknownforce. What was that force? The reason for this unbelievablemanifestation of energy was certainly somewhere inthe solution, theelectrolytic cell, or the steam-bath. Concentrating all the power of hishighly-trained analytical mind upon the problem--deaf and blindtoeverything else, as was his wont when deeply interested--he satmotionless, with his forgotten pipe clenched between his teeth. Hourafter hour he sat there,while most of his fellow-chemists finished theday's work and left the building and the room slowly darkened with thecoming of night.Finally he jumped up.Crashing his hand down upon the desk, heexclaimed:"I have liberated the intra-atomic energy of copper! Copper, 'X,' andelectric current!"I'm sure a fool forluck!" he continued as a new thought struck him."Suppose it had been liberated all at once? Probably blown the wholeworld off its hinges. But it wasn't: it wasgiven off slowly and in astraight line. Wonder why? Talk about power! Infinite! Believe me, I'llshow this whole Bureau of Chemistry something to make their eyesstickout, tomorrow. If they won't let me go ahead and develop it, I'llresign, hunt up some more 'X', and do it myself. That bath is on its wayto the moon rightnow, and there's no reason why I can't follow it.Martin's such a fanatic on exploration, he'll fall all over himself tobuild us any kind of a craft we'll need ... we'llexplore the wholesolar system! Great Cat, what a chance! A fool for luck is right!"He came to himself with a start. He switched on the lights and saw thatit wasten o'clock. Simultaneously he recalled that he was to have haddinner with his fiancÃ©e at her home, their first dinner since theirengagement. Cursing himself foran idiot he hastily left the building,and soon his motorcycle was tearing up Connecticut Avenue toward hissweetheart's home.CHAPTER IISteel BecomesInterestedDr. Marc DuQuesne was in his laboratory, engaged in a research uponcertain of the rare metals, particularly in regard to theirelectrochemicalproperties. He was a striking figure. Well over six feettall, unusually broad-shouldered even for his height, he was plainly aman of enormous physical strength. Histhick, slightly wavy hair wasblack. His eyes, only a trifle lighter in shade, were surmounted byheavy black eyebrows which grew together above his aquilinenose.Scott strolled into the room, finding DuQuesne leaning over a delicateelectrical instrument, his forbidding but handsome face strangelyilluminated by theghastly glare of his mercury-vapor arcs."Hello, Blackie," Scott began. "I thought it was Seaton in here atfirst. A fellow has to see your faces to tell you two apart.Speaking ofSeaton, d'you think that he's quite right?""I should say, off-hand, that he was a little out of control last nightand this morning," replied DuQuesne,manipulating connections with hislong, muscular fingers. "I don't think that he's insane, and I don'tbelieve that he dopes--probably overwork and nervous strain.He'll beall right in a day or two.""I think he's a plain nut, myself. That sure was a wild yarn he sprungon us, wasn't it? His imagination was hitting on all twelve,that'ssure. He seems to believe it himself, though, in spite of making a flatfailure of his demonstration to us this morning. He saved that wastesolution he wasworking on--what was left of that carboy of platinumresidues after he had recovered all the values, you know--and got themto put it up at auction this noon. Heresigned from the Bureau, and heand M. Reynolds Crane, that millionaire friend of his, bid it in for tencents.""M. Reynolds Crane?" DuQuesne concealed a start ofsurprise. "Where doeshe come in on this?""Oh, they're always together in everything. They've been thicker thanDamon and Pythias for a long time. They playtennis together--they'redoubles champions of the District, you know--and all kinds of things.Wherever you find one of them you'll usually find the other.Anyway,after they got the solution Crane took Seaton in his car, and somebodysaid they went out to Crane's house. Probably trying to humor him. Well,ta-ta;I've got a week's work to do yet today."As Scott left DuQuesne dropped his work and went to his desk, with a newexpression, half of chagrin, half of admiration,on his face. Picking uphis telephone, he called a number."Brookings?" he asked, cautiously. "This is DuQuesne. I must see youimmediately. There's something bigstarted that may as well belong tous.... No, can't say anything over the telephone.... Yes, I'll be rightout."He left the laboratory and soon was in the private officeof the head ofthe Washington or "diplomatic" branch, as it was known in certaincircles, of the great World Steel Corporation. Offices and laboratoriesweremaintained in the city, ostensibly for research work, but inreality to be near the center of political activity."How do you do, Doctor DuQuesne?" Brookings said as


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                                          SHREK                                       Written by                                William Steig & TedElliott                                     SHREK                         Once upon a time there was a lovely                          princess. But she had anenchantment                          upon her of a fearful sort which could                          only be broken by love's first kiss.                          She was locked awayin a castle guarded                          by a terrible fire-breathing dragon.                          Many brave knights had attempted to                          free her fromthis dreadful prison,                          but non prevailed. She waited in the                          dragon's keep in the highest room of                          the tallesttower for her true love                          and true love's first kiss. (laughs)                          Like that's ever gonna happen. What                          a load of -(toilet flush)                Allstar - by Smashmouth begins to play. Shrek goes about his                day. While in a nearby town, the villagers get togetherto go                after the ogre.                NIGHT - NEAR SHREK'S HOME                                     MAN1                         Think it's inthere?                                     MAN2                         All right. Let's get it!                                     MAN1                         Whoa. Hold on.Do you know what that                          thing can do to you?                                      MAN3                         Yeah, it'll grind your bones forit's                          bread.                Shrek sneaks up behind them and laughs.                                     SHREK                         Yes, well,


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                                       THE BIG WHITE                                        Written by                                      CollinFriesen      FADE IN:      EXT. ROAD - WINTER DAY      A police car, nothing more than a speck on the landscape, is intermittently      visiblethrough the blowing snow.      INT. POLICE CAR - SAME      A CORPORAL (20s), behind the wheel, with a bored DETECTIVE BOYLE (60s)      at hisside.                                  CORPORAL              So his hand is like, off, right.  So he puts on a              tourniquet, puts the hand in his pocket, walksfive              miles through the bush til he gets to the highway,              where he passes out, on the road, right.  Then this              logging truck comesalong...                                  DETECTIVE BOYLE                        (looking ahead)              Hey.      The Corporal looks forward.      CAR'S POV:Through the windshield of a WOMAN (40s), dressed in her      pajamas and a parka, skipping down the middle of the road.      EXT. ROAD      The policecar pulls to a stop, just as the woman does a pirouette and falls      over backwards.      Detective Boyle and the other Cop get out and walkover.                                  CORPORAL                        (into his radio)              Dispatch, this is unit 611, we need a first              responsder--                                  DETECTIVE BOYLE              Cancel that.      The Woman kicks up a leg, wiggles her foot.                                  DETECTIVEBOYLE (cont'd)              I know where she belongs.      As they lift her up...1     INT. INSIDE A TRASH DUMPSTER - LATE


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wheels of Chance, by H. G. WellsThis 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: The Wheels of Chance       A Bicycling IdyllAuthor: H. G. WellsRelease Date: April, 1998  [Etext #1264]Posting Date: November 10,2009 [EBook #1264]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHEELS OF CHANCE ***Produced by Dianne BeanTHE WHEELSOF CHANCE; A BICYCLING IDYLLBy H.G. Wells1896I. THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTER IN THE STORYIf you (presuming you are of the sex that does such things)--ifyou hadgone into the Drapery Emporium--which is really only magnificent forshop--of Messrs. Antrobus & Co.--a perfectly fictitious "Co.," bythe bye--of Putney,on the 14th of August, 1895, had turned to theright-hand side, where the blocks of white linen and piles of blanketsrise up to the rail from which the pink andblue prints depend, youmight have been served by the central figure of this story that is nowbeginning. He would have come forward, bowing and swaying, hewould haveextended two hands with largish knuckles and enormous cuffs over thecounter, and he would have asked you, protruding a pointed chin andwithoutthe slightest anticipation of pleasure in his manner, what hemight have the pleasure of showing you. Under certain circumstances--as,for instance, hats, babylinen, gloves, silks, lace, or curtains--hewould simply have bowed politely, and with a drooping expression, andmaking a kind of circular sweep, invited you to"step this way,"and so led you beyond his ken; but under other and happierconditions,--huckaback, blankets, dimity, cretonne, linen, calico, arecases inpoint,--he would have requested you to take a seat, emphasisingthe hospitality by leaning over the counter and gripping a chair back ina spasmodic manner, andso proceeded to obtain, unfold, and exhibithis goods for your consideration. Under which happier circumstances youmight--if of an observing turn of mind and nottoo much of a housewifeto be inhuman--have given the central figure of this story less cursoryattention.Now if you had noticed anything about him, it would havebeen chiefly tonotice how little he was noticeable. He wore the black morning coat, theblack tie, and the speckled grey nether parts (descending into shadowandmystery below the counter) of his craft. He was of a pallidcomplexion, hair of a kind of dirty fairness, greyish eyes, and askimpy, immature moustache under hispeaked indeterminate nose.His features were all small, but none ill-shaped. A rosette of pinsdecorated the lappel of his coat. His remarks, you would observe,wereentirely what people used to call cliche, formulae not organic to theoccasion, but stereotyped ages ago and learnt years since by heart."This, madam," hewould say, "is selling very well." "We are doing avery good article at four three a yard." "We could show you somethingbetter, of course." "No trouble, madam, Iassure you." Such were thesimple counters of his intercourse. So, I say, he would have presentedhimself to your superficial observation. He would have dancedaboutbehind the counter, have neatly refolded the goods he had shown you,have put on one side those you selected, extracted a little book witha carbon leaf anda tinfoil sheet from a fixture, made you out a littlebill in that weak flourishing hand peculiar to drapers, and have bawled"Sayn!" Then a puffy little shop-walkerwould have come into view,looked at the bill for a second, very hard (showing you a partingdown the middle of his head meanwhile), have scribbled a stillmoreflourishing J. M. all over the document, have asked you if therewas nothing more, have stood by you--supposing that you were payingcash--until the centralfigure of this story reappeared with the change.One glance more at him, and the puffy little shop-walker would have beenbowing you out, with fountains ofcivilities at work all about you. Andso the interview would have terminated.But real literature, as distinguished from anecdote, does not concernitself withsuperficial appearances alone. Literature is revelation.Modern literature is indecorous revelation. It is the duty of theearnest author to tell you what you would nothave seen--even at thecost of some blushes. And the thing that you would not have seen aboutthis young man, and the thing of the greatest moment to thisstory, thething that must be told if the book is to be written, was--let us faceit bravely--the Remarkable Condition of this Young Man's Legs.Let us approach thebusiness with dispassionate explicitness. Let usassume something of the scientific spirit, the hard, almost professorialtone of the conscientious realist. Let us treatthis young man's legs asa mere diagram, and indicate the points of interest with the unemotionalprecision of a lecturer's pointer. And so to our revelation. Ontheinternal aspect of the right ankle of this young man you would haveobserved, ladies and gentlemen, a contusion and an abrasion; on theinternal aspect of theleft ankle a contusion also; on its externalaspect a large yellowish bruise. On his left shin there were twobruises, one a leaden yellow graduating here and thereinto purple,and another, obviously of more recent date, of a blotchy red--tumid andthreatening. Proceeding up the left leg in a spiral manner, anunnaturalhardness and redness would have been discovered on the upper aspect ofthe calf, and above the knee and on the inner side, an extraordinaryexpanseof bruised surface, a kind of closely stippled shading ofcontused points. The right leg would be found to be bruised in amarvellous manner all about and under theknee, and particularly on theinterior aspect of the knee. So far we may proceed with our details.Fired by these discoveries, an investigator might perhaps havepursuedhis inquiries further--to bruises on the shoulders, elbows, and even thefinger joints, of the central figure of our story. He had indeed beenbumped andbattered at an extraordinary number of points. But enoughof realistic description is as good as a feast, and we have exhibitedenough for our purpose. Even inliterature one must know where to drawthe line.Now the reader may be inclined to wonder how a respectable young shopmanshould have got his legs, and indeedhimself generally, into such adreadful condition. One might fancy that he had been sitting with hisnether extremities in some complicated machinery, athreshing-machine,say, or one of those hay-making furies. But Sherlock Holmes (now happilydead) would have fancied nothing of the kind. He would haverecognisedat once that the bruises on the internal aspect of the left leg,considered in the light of the distribution of the other abrasions andcontusions, pointedunmistakably to the violent impact of the MountingBeginner upon the bicycling saddle, and that the ruinous state of theright knee was equally eloquent of theconcussions attendant on thatperson's hasty, frequently causeless, and invariably ill-conceiveddescents. One large bruise on the shin is even more characteristicofthe 'prentice cyclist, for upon every one of them waits the jest of theunexpected treadle. You try at least to walk your machine in an easymanner, andwhack!--you are rubbing your shin. So out of innocence weripen. Two bruises on that place mark a certain want of aptitude inlearning, such as one might expectin a person unused to muscularexercise. Blisters on the hands are eloquent of the nervous clutchof the wavering rider. And so forth, until Sherlock ispresentlyexplaining, by the help of the minor injuries, that the machine riddenis an old-fashioned affair with a fork instead of the diamond frame, acushioned tire,well worn on the hind wheel, and a gross weight all onof perhaps three-and-forty pounds.The revelation is made. Behind the decorous figure of theattentiveshopman that I had the honour of showing you at first, rises a visionof a nightly struggle, of two dark figures and a machine in a darkroad,--the road, tobe explicit, from Roehampton to Putney Hill,--andwith this vision is the sound of a heel spurning the gravel, a gaspingand grunting, a shouting of "Steer, man,steer!" a wavering unsteadyflight, a spasmodic turning of the missile edifice of man and machine,and a collapse. Then you descry dimly through the dusk thecentralfigure of this story sitting by the roadside and rubbing his leg atsome new place, and his friend, sympathetic (but by no means depressed),repairing thedisplacement of the handle-bar.Thus even in a shop assistant does the warmth of manhood assert itself,and drive him against all the conditions of his calling,against thecounsels of prudence and the restrictions of his means, to seek thewholesome delights of exertion and danger and pain. And our firstexamination ofthe draper reveals beneath his draperies--the man! Towhich initial fact (among others) we shall come again in the end.IIBut enough of these revelations. Thecentral figure of our story is nowgoing along behind the counter, a draper indeed, with your purchases inhis arms, to the warehouse, where the various articlesyou have selectedwill presently be packed by the senior porter and sent to you. Returningthence to his particular place, he lays hands on a folded pieceofgingham, and gripping the corners of the folds in his hands, begins tostraighten them punctiliously. Near him is an apprentice, apprenticed tothe same highcalling of draper's assistant, a ruddy, red-haired ladin a very short tailless black coat and a very high collar, who isdeliberately unfolding and refolding somepatterns of cretonne. Bytwenty-one he too may hope to be a full-blown assistant, even as Mr.Hoopdriver. Prints depend from the brass rails above them, behindarefixtures full of white packages containing, as inscriptions testify,Lino, Hd Bk, and Mull. You might imagine to see them that the two wereboth intent uponnothing but smoothness of textile and rectitude offold. But to tell the truth, neither is thinking of the mechanicalduties in hand. The assistant is dreaming of thedelicious time--onlyfour hours off now--when he will resume the tale of his bruises andabrasions. The apprentice is nearer the long long thoughts of boyhood,andhis imagination rides cap-a-pie through the chambers of his brain,seeking some knightly quest in honour of that Fair Lady, the last butone of the girl apprenticesto the dress-making upstairs. He inclinesrather to street fighting against revolutionaries--because then shecould see him from the window.Jerking them back tothe present comes the puffy little shop-walker,with a paper in his hand. The apprentice becomes extremely active. Theshopwalker eyes the goods in hand."Hoopdriver," he says, "how's thatline of g-sez-x ginghams?"Hoopdriver returns from an imaginary triumph over the uncertainties ofdismounting. "They're goingfairly well, sir. But the larger checks seemhanging."The shop-walker brings up parallel to the counter. "Any particular timewhen you want your holidays?" heasks.Hoopdriver pulls at his skimpy moustache. "No--Don't want them too late,sir, of course.""How about this day week?"Hoopdriver becomes rigidly meditative,gripping the corners of thegingham folds in his hands. His face is eloquent of conflictingconsiderations. Can he learn it in a week? That's the question.Otherwise


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Variable Man, by Philip K. DickThis 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 Variable ManAuthor: Philip K. DickIllustrator: Alex EbelRelease Date: April 27, 2010 [EBook #32154][Last updated: May 4,2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VARIABLE MAN ***Produced by Greg Weeks, Barbara Tozier and theOnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net    This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction September    1953. Extensive research didnot uncover any evidence that the    U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.[Illustration]THE VARIABLE MANBY PHILIP K. DICKILLUSTRATED BYEBEL    He fixed things--clocks, refrigerators, vidsenders and    destinies. But he had no business in the future, where the    calculators could not handle him. Hewas Earth's only    hope--and its sure failure!Security Commissioner Reinhart rapidly climbed the front steps andentered the Council building. Council guardsstepped quickly aside andhe entered the familiar place of great whirring machines. His thinface rapt, eyes alight with emotion, Reinhart gazed intently up atthecentral SRB computer, studying its reading."Straight gain for the last quarter," observed Kaplan, the laborganizer. He grinned proudly, as if personallyresponsible. "Not bad,Commissioner.""We're catching up to them," Reinhart retorted. "But too damn slowly.We must finally go over--and soon."Kaplan was in atalkative mood. "We design new offensive weapons, theycounter with improved defenses. And nothing is actually made!Continual improvement, but neither wenor Centaurus can stop designinglong enough to stabilize for production.""It will end," Reinhart stated coldly, "as soon as Terra turns out aweapon for whichCentaurus can build no defense.""Every weapon has a defense. Design and discord. Immediateobsolescence. Nothing lasts long enough to--""What we count on isthe _lag_," Reinhart broke in, annoyed. His hardgray eyes bored into the lab organizer and Kaplan slunk back. "Thetime lag between our offensive design andtheir counter development.The lag varies." He waved impatiently toward the massed banks of SRBmachines. "As you well know."At this moment, 9:30 AM, May 7,2136, the statistical ratio on the SRBmachines stood at 21-17 on the Centauran side of the ledger. All factsconsidered, the odds favored a successful repulsion byProximaCentaurus of a Terran military attack. The ratio was based on thetotal information known to the SRB machines, on a gestalt of the vastflow of data thatpoured in endlessly from all sectors of the Sol andCentaurus systems.21-17 on the Centauran side. But a month ago it had been 24-18 in theenemy's favor.Things were improving, slowly but steadily. Centaurus,older and less virile than Terra, was unable to match Terra's rate oftechnocratic advance. Terra was pullingahead."If we went to war now," Reinhart said thoughtfully, "we would lose.We're not far enough along to risk an overt attack." A harsh, ruthlessglow twistedacross his handsome features, distorting them into astern mask. "But the odds are moving in our favor. Our offensivedesigns are gradually gaining on theirdefenses.""Let's hope the war comes soon," Kaplan agreed. "We're all on edge.This damn waiting...."The war would come soon. Reinhart knew it intuitively. Theair wasfull of tension, the _elan_. He left the SRB rooms and hurried downthe corridor to his own elaborately guarded office in the Securitywing. It wouldn't belong. He could practically feel the hot breath ofdestiny on his neck--for him a pleasant feeling. His thin lips set ina humorless smile, showing an even line of whiteteeth against histanned skin. It made him feel good, all right. He'd been working at ita long time.First contact, a hundred years earlier, had ignited instantconflictbetween Proxima Centauran outposts and exploring Terran raiders. Flashfights, sudden eruptions of fire and energy beams.And then the long, dreary yearsof inaction between enemies wherecontact required years of travel, even at nearly the speed of light.The two systems were evenly matched. Screen againstscreen. Warshipagainst power station. The Centauran Empire surrounded Terra, an ironring that couldn't be broken, rusty and corroded as it was. Radicalnewweapons had to be conceived, if Terra was to break out.Through the windows of his office, Reinhart could see endlessbuildings and streets, Terrans hurrying backand forth. Bright specksthat were commute ships, little eggs that carried businessmen andwhite-collar workers around. The huge transport tubes that shotmassesof workmen to factories and labor camps from their housing units. Allthese people, waiting to break out. Waiting for the day.Reinhart snapped on hisvidscreen, the confidential channel. "Give meMilitary Designs," he ordered sharply.       *       *       *       *       *He sat tense, his wiry body taut, as thevidscreen warmed into life.Abruptly he was facing the hulking image of Peter Sherikov, directorof the vast network of labs under the Ural Mountains.Sherikov'sgreat bearded features hardened as he recognized Reinhart.His bushy black eyebrows pulled up in a sullen line. "What do youwant? You know I'm busy. We havetoo much work to do, as it is.Without being bothered by--politicians.""I'm dropping over your way," Reinhart answered lazily. He adjustedthe cuff of hisimmaculate gray cloak. "I want a full description ofyour work and whatever progress you've made.""You'll find a regular departmental report plate filed in theusualway, around your office someplace. If you'll refer to that you'll knowexactly what we--""I'm not interested in that. I want to _see_ what you're doing. AndIexpect you to be prepared to describe your work fully. I'll be thereshortly. Half an hour."       *       *       *       *       *Reinhart cut the circuit. Sherikov's heavyfeatures dwindled andfaded. Reinhart relaxed, letting his breath out. Too bad he had towork with Sherikov. He had never liked the man. The big Polishscientistwas an individualist, refusing to integrate himself withsociety. Independent, atomistic in outlook. He held concepts of theindividual as an end, diametricallycontrary to the accepted organicstate Weltansicht.But Sherikov was the leading research scientist, in charge of theMilitary Designs Department. And on Designsthe whole future of Terradepended. Victory over Centaurus--or more waiting, bottled up in theSol System, surrounded by a rotting, hostile Empire, now sinkingintoruin and decay, yet still strong.Reinhart got quickly to his feet and left the office. He hurried downthe hall and out of the Council building.A few minutes laterhe was heading across the mid-morning sky in hishighspeed cruiser, toward the Asiatic land-mass, the vast Uralmountain range. Toward the Military Designslabs.Sherikov met him at the entrance. "Look here, Reinhart. Don't thinkyou're going to order me around. I'm not going to--""Take it easy." Reinhart fell into stepbeside the bigger man. Theypassed through the check and into the auxiliary labs. "No immediatecoercion will be exerted over you or your staff. You're freetocontinue your work as you see fit--for the present. Let's get thisstraight. My concern is to integrate your work with our total socialneeds. As long as your work issufficiently productive--"Reinhart stopped in his tracks."Pretty, isn't he?" Sherikov said ironically."What the hell is it?"Icarus, we call him. Remember the Greekmyth? The legend of Icarus.Icarus flew.... This Icarus is going to fly, one of these days."Sherikov shrugged. "You can examine him, if you want. I suppose thisiswhat you came here to see."Reinhart advanced slowly. "This is the weapon you've been working on?""How does he look?"Rising up in the center of the chamberwas a squat metal cylinder, agreat ugly cone of dark gray. Technicians circled around it, wiring upthe exposed relay banks. Reinhart caught a glimpse of endlesstubesand filaments, a maze of wires and terminals and parts criss-crossingeach other, layer on layer."What is it?" Reinhart perched on the edge of a workbench,leaning hisbig shoulders against the wall. "An idea of Jamison Hedge--the sameman who developed our instantaneous interstellar vidcasts forty yearsago. He wastrying to find a method of faster than light travel whenhe was killed, destroyed along with most of his work. After that ftlresearch was abandoned. It looked as ifthere were no future in it.""Wasn't it shown that nothing could travel faster than light?""The interstellar vidcasts do! No, Hedge developed a valid ftl drive.Hemanaged to propel an object at fifty times the speed of light. Butas the object gained speed, its length began to diminish and its massincreased. This was in linewith familiar twentieth-century conceptsof mass-energy transformation. We conjectured that as Hedge's objectgained velocity it would continue to lose length andgain mass untilits length became nil and its mass infinite. Nobody can imagine suchan object.""Go on.""But what actually occurred is this. Hedge's objectcontinued to loselength and gain mass until it reached the theoretical limit ofvelocity, the speed of light. At that point the object, still gainingspeed, simply ceasedto exist. Having no length, it ceased to occupyspace. It disappeared. However, the object had not been _destroyed_.It continued on its way, gaining momentumeach moment, moving in anarc across the galaxy, away from the Sol system. Hedge's objectentered some other realm of being, beyond our powers ofconception.The next phase of Hedge's experiment consisted in a search for someway to slow the ftl object down, back to a sub-ftl speed, hence backinto ouruniverse. This counterprinciple was eventually worked out.""With what result?""The death of Hedge and destruction of most of his equipment. Hisexperimentalobject, in re-entering the space-time universe, came intobeing in space already occupied by matter. Possessing an incrediblemass, just below infinity level,Hedge's object exploded in a titaniccataclysm. It was obvious that no space travel was possible with sucha drive. Virtually all space contains _some_ matter. Tore-enter spacewould bring automatic destruction. Hedge had found his ftl drive andhis counterprinciple, but no one before this has been able to put themto anyuse."Reinhart walked over toward the great metal cylinder. Sherikov jumpeddown and followed him. "I don't get it," Reinhart said. "You said theprinciple is nogood for space travel.""That's right.""What's this for, then? If the ship explodes as soon as it returns toour universe--""This is not a ship." Sherikov grinned slyly."Icarus is the firstpractical application of Hedge's principles. Icarus is a bomb.""So this is our weapon," Reinhart said. "A bomb. An immense bomb.""A bomb,moving at a velocity greater than light. A bomb which willnot exist in our universe. The Centaurans won't be able to detect orstop it. How could they? As soon asit passes the speed of light itwill cease to exist--beyond all detection.""But--""Icarus will be launched outside the lab, on the surface. He willalign himself withProxima Centaurus, gaining speed rapidly. By thetime he reaches his destination he will be traveling at ftl-100.Icarus will be brought back to this universe within


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                               MY WEEK WITH MARILYN                                    Written by                                  AdrianHodges          1 EXT. TILBURY DOCKS. DAY. 1           Over a DARK SCREEN we see the caption:           "This is a fairy story, an episode out of time andspace,           which nevertheless was real" - Colin Clark.           Then, FADE UP ON:           Newsreel footage of SIR LAURENCE OLIVIER AND VIVIENLEIGH           arriving back at Tilbury Docks to be greeted by an excited           crowd of fans. As they progress down the gangplank and stop           to signautographs we HEAR an excited commentary OVER:                          COMMENTATOR           "Returning to England are           Britain's acting royaltySir           Laurence Olivier and Lady           Olivier, better known as stunning           Gone With The Wind star Vivien           Leigh. Sir Laurence has addeda           new string to his bow with the           announcement that he is to direct           and star in a screen version of           Terence Rattigan's stage playThe           Sleeping Prince with none other           than Hollywood siren Marilyn           Monroe. When the world's greatest           actor romances the mostfamous           woman alive, we can be sure that           sparks will fly. Now, now Lady           Olivier, don't worry - any           romance is strictly forthe           camera!"           As OLIVIER and VIVIEN smile for the photographers, we -                          CUT TO:                                   2 EXT.


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                                  HITCHCOCK                                 Written by                                                      John J.McLaughlin                                                                                Based on the book Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psychoby                               Stephen Rebello                         FADE IN:                                   EXT. MARSHLAND -DUSK                                   We move across smoldering embers and reach a small grass          fire. Dirt is thrown over the flames before a BOOTfinishes          stamping them out.                                   SUPER: PLAINFIELD, WISCONSIN, 1944                                    HENRY GEIN(O.S.)           We're just lucky it didn't reach the           trees...                                   We move up two dirty pairs of overalls to find HENRY andED          GEIN sweating away as they continue shovelling out the          flames. Both are in their forties and wearing flannel shirts.          Ed wears an Elmer Fuddhat.                                    HENRY GEIN (CONT'D)           There's gonna be a lot more jobs at that           factory by Milwaukee come June. Icould           put in a word.                                                   ED GEIN           You can't leave us, Henry. She needs both                          OFUS--                                                   HENRY GEIN           Can you stop being a momma's boy forone           second?                                   Henry looks at Ed and he shrinks back.                                    HENRY GEIN (CONT'D)           I'm not trying