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In previous part we had a look at the different blog structuring elements, and how best to place them in order to maximize your blog's effectiveness. In this post we will be looking at pages every blog needs to have.
Every blog you might have come across includes certain pages likes about me, contact me, etc. Do you need to add these pages to your blog too? What exactly should feature on these pages? Why are pages required, can't we input the same information in a post? We will be looking at answer to all these questions and much more.
Lets get a clear grasp on the differentiation between a page and the post at the outset itself. In this article we will be discussing all about the different types of pages you can create and what to add to them. Once you have clarity on the difference between these two type of content presentation you will be able to craft better content for each of your pages.
Content once added is not edited much, and is usually considered to be static. Evergreen content is added to pages. Content added to posts is meant to be dynamic, it can and is oftentimes changed over period of time. Content added to posts is time limited and might become obsolete over time.
Pages are designed not to show up in RSS Feeds Post by default when made live are included in the RSS feed.
Pages by default do not include timestamp, i.e they do not have date or time of being created included in their format Posts includes content that might become less relevant with passing time. Hence posts by default are designed to include timestamp.
About Page – This is essential page as it gives new readers an introduction to you and your blog. This section should include details about you, with the aim of allowing readers to form a connect with you. Most common mistake bloggers make is making their about me page focussed exclusively on themselves. But that is not what will get readers hooked to you. Every person is interested in 'what's in this for me?'. You need to include answer to question like – what's your blog about? why do you blog? and how can readers benefit from your blog? These are answers that will enable your readers to decide on what's in it for them, why they should follow your blog, and why they should join your subscriber list. Always add a subscription form to your About me page. Lots of leading bloggers have seen great conversions from this page. If you play it right visitors to this page are most likely to sign up to your subscription list.
Contact Page – A page with all information about how to reach you. You can add as much as or as little as information you are comfortable with on this page. As a thumbrule include your email id or a contact you form, and link to your social media profile. For those of you who are not comfortable giving out their personal social media profile here, create one for your blog and add that here. It will also help brand your blog. Your readers, potential partners, advertisers, press, other bloggers and many more opportunities will be seeking this information. Make sure you have correct information on this page. If you are managing more than one blog, it is best to keep separate contact point for different blogs, this helps in keeping the communication organized. Use a professional email ID for your contact page. Do not give out, personal email ID.
Legal Disclaimer Page: We are all bound by legal framework, irrespective of where we reside. As a blogger you need to be aware of basic legalities. This page needs to include information like – Advice provided on this blog is for guidance purpose only, please consult your legal advisor/financial advisor/healthcare provider etc before acting on any of it. The blog author is in no way affiliated to any of the companies he/she writes about, in case you are affiliated, clearly mention the same here. This kind of information will save you lot of legal hassle. You can also mention which legal jurisdiction will your blog fall under in case of any legal dispute.
404 Page: As your blog grows, so will the chances of your readers landing on a dead link/page. At this point your readers will be shown a boring standard 404 page. This is a golden opportunity, tapped into by many successful bloggers, design a custom 404 page for your readers. You Can make the page funny, interesting or more helpful. whatever you do, customise it. Use it as a part of your branding strategy.
Getting Started Page: As your blog grows, so does your posts, and at some point it might start getting a little overwhelming for new readers. Once your blog reaches this stage, I strongly recommend adding this page to your blog. It should contain information that will ease in new readers into your blog, you can include – Top 5 post from your blog, a layout of how your blog is planned and in which section reader can find what information, how best to use the blog, a set of evergreen articles that new readers can start reading. This page helps orient new readers to your blog, and hopefully get them to subscribe to your blog as well.
Resources Page: If you write about topics where you regularly recommend or use products, a resources page is a good idea. Here you can list down all your recommended resources, products, ebooks, courses, videos etc. This page allows you to organize your recommendation and gives readers a one stop place to browse through the stuff you recommend.
Advertise With us Page – You are looking to monetize your blog, so make sure you have a well structured advertise with us page. This will help advertisers get a snapshot of what your website is about – what advertising options you offer, mention separate contact point if any for advertisers, define your audience for the advertisers, include all details that a potential advertiser would like to know. Well written page will benefit both you and advertisers by eliminating need for useless communication over and over again.
Affiliate PreSell Page – If you are advertising affiliate links on your site, a dedicated affiliate page is a great idea. On this page you can write short description about the product/service, and link it back to other post on your blog which talk about this product. This allows you to pre-sell the product and improve your chances of making affiliate sales. This is an essential page if you are dealing with products which have average or below average sales page, you can go the extra mile to convince you readers about a particular product using this page.
Landing Page – If you run ad campaign for your blog, a dedicated landing page is a must. Do not link your ad campaign to your blog's homepage. This reduces the conversion potential of your ad campaign. Landing page enable for better conversion. You can also direct your audience from social media profiles like Twitter, FaceBook etc also to this landing page. A dedicated page will help you convert this audience better. Thus giving you better value on your investment.
Testimonials Page – Others positive opinion of you will influence readers to subscribe to your blog. Whether you are selling affiliate products, or membership, readers are more likely to join you or buy products from you when they see and read other readers positive experience with you. So making a dedicated Testimonials page makes sense. Testimonials can be in form of text, or video. Text testimonials are the mostly commonly used, however genuine video testimonials are the latest trend. In case of text testimonials always try to add photo of the testimonial provider. Photo helps build the testimonials credibility and add a face to the words.
Guest Bloggers Page: This one is essential if you are looking to entertain guest bloggers on your site. On this page you can provide, basic guidelines for your guest bloggers, standard writing format for your blog, a list of acceptable and unacceptable stuff, and dedicated contact point to reach out to you. Also add information about what's the post approval process, how many days it takes and what's your copyright proces. Do you do only exclusive posts, or do you also host posts shared on other blogs as well. Also specify whats the guest post submission process, do you only need the post title and brief outline of its content, do you need the entire content at the outset? Specify how you would like things to be presented.
Links Page/BlogRoll Page: To be successful in your niche, you need to read competitor's blog and keep a track of what's being talked about in your niche. For this purpose you can create your own list of blogs to follow. BlogRoll is the place to list down these blogs, this also allows your readers to discover your interest. Additionally, the blogs you list on blogroll will be happy to see their name on your blog, and might reciprocate your gesture, thus earning free exposure and links for your blog. You might notice that traditional WordPress.org setup allows for adding blogroll in the sidebar. This is not the most ideal presentation. It pulls away attention from you post, does not provide any space to write a brief intro about the blog/blogger, and most importantly it crowds up your blog. Creating a dedicated Links page is the perfect solution for these problems.
This is a basic list of pages your blog needs. Of this list your blog might require all or some pages, or maybe some more pages apart from those mentioned here. Whichever pages you add to your blog, make sure the content is crisp and evergreen. Place your pages, in manner that's easy for readers to navigate. Most blogs feature their pages in the navigation bar itself, for visibility and easy access.
With all things in place, in next section we will move on to creating content for your blog. Content is the life of very blog, and it can make or break a blog. Creating quality content with right use of images, and lists can make a good content look great. Do you need a content creation process? What is writing style, why is it so crucial? Some blog post ideas to get you started. And a list of 'writer's block post ideas to get you out of crunch times. We will have a look at all this and much more in our next section. So until next time, keep working on your blog.
Do write in the comments section below and let me know what pages do you include in your blog?


text:
Trump Is Not a Cosmic 404 Error
Your analysis that Trump is a symptom rather than a cause is perfectly correct. Your implicit assumption that a system of representative democracy can reform itself is however sadly incorrect. For a representative democracy to function, it requires (a) representatives that put the interests of the nation ahead of their own interests, and (b) a thoughtful and informed electorate that votes on the basis of policy rather than personality.
Once we've all stopped laughing (or crying) hysterically it's apparent that such a state of affairs has never, and can never, exist anywhere. As Plato observed more than 2,500 years ago, democracy always ends in dysfunctional tyranny because there are always enough simple-minded people who will swallow the lies and promises of blustering demagogues. You don't need a majority to create a tyranny, just a sufficient number of dupes, because the rest will passively accept whatever they're presented with. And once the tyrant controls the levers of power, what choice do they have anyway?
So the USA is collapsing into total dysfunction and it's clear that a far more intelligent and self-controlled future Republican President will complete the process that the infantile halfwit Trump has begun without even realizing the fact. Of course we'll still call it a democracy — after all, every country is a democracy now. Just like the People's Democratic Republic of North Korea, for example. But never once during this process will Republican voters ever grasp what they've made possible, because we humans reject reality in favor of our deeply-held beliefs and the more reality contradicts those beliefs the stronger we cling to them. Remember there were still ordinary decent Germans who continued to believe for decades afterward that Hitler "made Germany great again" despite the catastrophe of World War II. There are still plenty of Russians who cling to the idea that Stalin "saved" the nation. There is literally no end to human self-deception and sheer stupidity.
But perhaps one day we'll wake up to the fact that any system of governance that assumes there's no need to demonstrate capability before being granted responsibility is and always will be totally unfit for purpose. Only then will we have any hope whatsoever of attempting to mitigate the usual human follies.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
One For The Money [2]
Thirty years ago Elvis restaked his claim to the throne of rock-and-roll.
The Christian Life [3]
How country musician Billy Joe Shaver achieved his victory.
— Jim Caligiuri, AUSTIN CHRONICLE
Eddy Shaver [4]
Tuning Guitars.
— AUSTIN CHRONICLE
Album Review: Victory [5]
A review of Shaver's "Victory".
Deep Thoughts [6]
Columbia's two-CD reissue showcases Thelonious Monk's solo standards.
— Jon Garelick, THE BOSTON PHOENIX
Return of the Gris-Gris Man [7]
On his new CD, Dr. John cooks with Brits, but the product is still pure gumbo.
Phair-Minded [8]
All's Phair in love and war, sez Michael McCall.
— Michael McCall, NASHVILLE SCENE
Life Of Brian [9]
The Beach Boys' Brian Wilson may be mad, but he proves his genius once again.
— Dave McElfresh, TUCSON WEEKLY
Travelin' Man [10]
Country's Richard Buckner's third album melds dusty folk and blues with distinctly modern rhythms.
— Meredith Ochs, THE BOSTON PHOENIX
Sound Escape [11]
Dallas slowcore popsters Transona Five may not be the band you think they are, and on their new CD they prove it.
— Shannon Sutlief, FW WEEKLY
Royal Flush [12]
Vintage B.B. King recordings highlight a soaring, compact guitar style that imitation can't diminish.
— Bill Kisliuk, THE BOSTON PHOENIX
Scintolating [13]
Old time R & B players Jesse Scinto and the Dignitaries rehash the past.
— James Porter, NEWCITY CHICAGO
In Style [14]
Michael McCall swings with Victor Mecyssne.
Something Old, Something New [15]
Lois Lane doesn't need a superman to make her music fly up the charts.
— Matt Hanks, MEMPHIS FLYER
If you go gaga over the sultry smoothness of a symphonic glissando, just wait till you experience our transitions to cool and useful music links on the Web.
ometimes in Weekly Wire, you hit a mutha'lode of a section. This week, the Music section is jammed--and jammed with a damn rich variety of articles. Here are just a few of them.
Billy Joe Shaver's been a Country music icon for a long long time. He's had songs covered by Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, The Allman Bros., Johnny Cash to name a few. Now he's teamed up with his son, Eddy, in the band Shaver. Their new album, "Victory" is here. Read about Billy Joe and new music in this special mini-section.
Jan Garelick of the Boston Phoenix writes of the seemingly odd teaming of Dr. John and....a bunch of british musicians on the New Orleans master's new recording, "Anutha Zone." Garelick talks to the good Doctor about the making of the record. This is one record we'll be checking out for sure.
You'll find more too--check out pieces on the new solo piano Columbia CD releases of Thelonius Monk, Liz Phair's "Whitechocolatespaceegg," Brian Wilson, BB King, Richard Buckner...we could go on and on here...
Boston Phoenix CD Reviews [16]
Spalding Gray
Get Your Ass in the Water and Swim Like Me!
Vocokesh
Getaway Cruiser
Derek Bailey & Joelle Leandre
Turn Up That Noise! [17]
The Willard Grant Conspiracy
Tiny Tunes [18]
The Gothic Archies
Rhythm & Views [19]
Sand Rubies
Austin Chronicle Record Reviews [20]
El Flaco
Music: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21


text:
1. Overviews of all the stories
2. Stories and anthologies
1. Overviews of all the novels
2. Novels
3. Stories and essays
1. Overviews of all the stories & (...)
2. Anthologies
5. Memoirs
van Vogt
Overviews of all the stories
Stories and essays
Great Novels
van Vogt >
3. Stories >
"The Replicators" (1965) by A. E. van Vogt
Friday 8 December 2017 (actualisé le 9 December 2017 ) by A. E. van Vogt
Steve Matlin is an particularly ornery, introverted, stubborn and combative farmer (and WW2 veteran) who comes across a very big and very strange alien monster on a back road near his farm, so as he was out on an (illegal) hunting expedition anyways, he shot the thing, of course.
Well, the duplicate copies of this alien visitor to Earth - who had never encountered such wanton aggressiveness in all their journeys throughout the galaxy - decide to go after Steve in a big way to get even, but although they can and do replicate (on a much bigger and more menacing scale) everything Steve or anyone else throws in their way, our ex-Marine is a tough nut to crack, and the ensuing ding-dong battle between these aliens and Steve and his compatriots provides the story line of this late but really quite successful van Vogt tale.
In fact, Steve being about the most self-centred example of humanity in the whole history of literature, there are moments when the story becomes frankly hilarious - perhaps the only case of such light-heartedness in the whole oeuvre of Canada's bestest-selling author, Mr. van Vogt.
With the original WORLDS OF IF SCIENCE FICTION illustrations by Morrow, and cover art by McKenna [1].
e-books of this good read are available for downloading below.
THE REPLICATORS
Standing there, after killing the monster, Matlin began to get mad.
In its death throes, the twelve-foot creature had done a violent muscular convulsion and somersaulted over into the dump section of Matlin's truck.
There it lay now, with its elephantine head and quarter-length trunk twisted to one side, and a huge arm and hand flung up and visible over the rear end. What must have been tons of shiny, black body was squashed limply down into the bottom of the cavernous metal carrier . . . creating a problem.
That was all it was to Matlin: a problem.
Steve Matlin was an abysmally suspicious and angry man. His impulse now was to dump the beast in the weeds beside the road. Reluctantly, he decided against that. He had unfortunately been seen driving along this little used lake road by the two officers of a highway patrol car. If the patrolmen found the creature's body, they would assume that he had shot it.
This benighted man, Matlin, envisioned himself as being the person who would have to see to the disposition of the dead monster. As he reasoned it out, if he made the mistake of dumping it in the wrong place, he'd have to hire a crane to get it into his truck again. And if he simply took it home, he'd have the job of digging a hole for it.
"Better take it to the police," he decided gloomily, "and follow their advice like a good little fellow."
Seething at the nuisance, but resigned, he drove to the main highway. There, instead of turning left to his farm, he headed for Minden, the nearest suburb of the city. Arrived in town, he drove straight to the police station, braked to a halt, and vigorously honked his horn.
Nobody showed.
The exasperated Matlin was about to lean on his horn and really blast them with sound, when he made an electrifying discovery. The police headquarters was on a side street and, whatever the reason, there wasn't a car or person in sight.
. . . Hot afternoon, empty street, rare opportunity —
Matlin tripped the lever that started the dump mechanism. A moment later, he felt the beast's body shift. He simply drove out from under it and kept on going, gunning his motor and reversing the dump mechanism.
That night before they went to bed, his wife, Cora, said to him, "Did you hear about the creature from space?"
Matlin's mind leaped to the memory of the beast he had carted into town. He thought scathingly: "Those nuts! Creature from space indeed!" But he said aloud, gruffly, "You watching that junk on TV?"
"It was in the news report," she said defensively. "They found it right there in the street."
So it was the thing he had killed. He felt a sudden glee. He'd got away with it. He thought smugly: "Saved myself twenty-five bucks. Time I had a little luck."
He went silently to bed.
Cora lay for a while, listening to his peaceful breathing, thinking of the monster from space — and thinking of the universe that she knew existed somewhere beyond the narrow world of Steve Matlin. She had once been a teacher. But that was four children and two decades ago. It was a little hard sometimes to realize how far away the real world was these days.
Out there, a creature never before seen on earth had been found lying dead in the street in front of the Minden police station. The TV cameras brought front views, side views and top views into everybody's living room. No one had any idea how the thing had gotten where it was discovered, and, according to the news commentators, top government and military officials were beginning to gather around the colossal corpse like buzzing flies.
Two days went by. A monster-hunting expedition arrived at the Matlin farm — among other places — but Cora shook her head to their questions and denied in a take-it-for-granted tone that Steve was the one who had transported the beast. "After all," she said scathingly, "he would have told me. Surely, you — uh!"
She stopped, thought: "That man! That incredible man! He could have."
The visitors seemed unaware of her sudden confusion. And they also evidently believed that a husband would have told his wife. The principal spokesman, a fine looking, soft-voiced man of her own age, who had introduced himself as John Graham — and who was the only person present not in a police or military uniform — said in a kindly tone, "Tell your husband there's quite a reward already, something like a hundred thousand dollars, for anyone who can help us effectively."
The expedition departed in a long line of noisy motorcycles and cars.
It was about mid-morning the next day when Steve Matlin saw the second monster.
He had been following the trail of the first one from the lake road. And suddenly here was another.
He dived into a gully and lay there, breathless.
What he had expected, in coming here by himself, Matlin had never considered clearly. When Cora had told him of the reward money, he had instantly derided her trusting nature.
"Those S.O.B.'s will never split that reward with anyone who hasn't got his claim staked and ready to fight," he had said.
He had come to stake his claim.
His shock on seeing this second creature was like a multitude of flames burning inside him. He was aware of the heat rising along his spine and searing his brain. Fear! Trembling, he raised his rifle.
As he did so, the creature —which had been bending down —came up with something that glinted in the sun. The next instant, a bullet whistled past Matlin's head and struck a tree behind him with an impact like a clap of thunder. The ground trembled. An instant later, the sound of an explosion came to Matlin's ears.
The explosion was loud enough to have come from a small cannon.
Even as he made the mental comparison from his experience as a Marine in World War II, the distant rifle — it looked like a rifle, though a huge one — spat flame again. This time the bullet struck the rock ten yards in front of Matlin and sprayed him with a shower of rock splinters. His body stung all over, and when he was able to look again — after the second explosion had echoed from the distance —he saw that his hands were covered with dozens of droplets of his blood.
The sight was both terrifying and galvanizing. He slid back, rolled over, half-clawed to his feet and, bending low, ran to the gully's end, stopping only when he realized that it was becoming too shallow to be a shelter.
What could he do?
Shadowy memories came of wartime risks he had taken. At the time he had felt enforced, compelled by the realities of a war he never accepted — a war that had wasted several years of his life. But he remembered moving, crouching, going forward. He had always thought what a mad thing it was for a sensible person to force himself into enemy territory. Yet under the hated pressure of wartime discipline, he had resignedly gone into the most deadly situations.
Was it possible he would have to do that now — because of his own foolishness in coming here?
As he crouched there, appalled, two more cannonlike shells splattered the rock where he had been seconds before. A cannon against a rifle! Matlin wanted out, wanted away. The angry scheme he had had to get for himself whatever might be at the end of this search had no meaning in the face of the firepower that was seeking, his destruction with each booming shot.
He lay cringing at the shallow end of the gully, not even daring to raise his head.
His own rifle seemed like a mere toy now . . .
The phone rang. When Cora answered, it took her several moments to recognize the hoarse voice at the other end as her husband's.
"I'm calling from a roadside pay phone. Can you find out where that monster-hunting expedition is now?" he said.
"Mamie just called. They were over at her farm. Why?"
"It's chasing me," he said. "Tell 'em I'm coming toward the highway from the boathouse. It's driving a dump truck as big as a house."
"What's chasing you?" Cora yelled into the mouthpiece. "Where?"
"A second one of the monsters. On that back road to the lake," Matlin moaned. And hung up.
The battle on the highway began about two o'clock in the afternoon. The creature climbed out of the cab of a dump truck that stood twenty feet high. Crouching behind the vehicle, it fired with a rifle the size of a cannon at anything that moved.
The two dozen men with their frail cars and tiny rifles crouched in the underbrush. Lying beside Graham, Matlin heard the man say urgently to an army major: "Call again for an air strike!"
It was about ten minutes after that that the first helicopter appeared on the horizon. It turned out to be an enterprising TV station's vehicle, with cameras aboard. The fluttering monstrosity of flying machine circled the dump truck, taking pictures of the great being beside it. At first it did not seem to occur to the creature to look at the sky for the source of the sound. But suddenly it got the idea.
Up came that long rifle. The first bullet smashed through the cockpit. A splinter from somewhere hit the pilot and knocked him unconscious. The helicopter flew off erratically. As it retreated, another gigantic bullet smashed its tail. The stricken whirlibird fluttered down among the trees on the other side of a low hill.
Worse, when the military helicopters arrived, they no longer had the advantage of surprise. The cannon-rifle fired at them as they approached. They veered off—but not before three went down, one in flames. With one exception, the others began to shoot back from a distance.
The exception flew off to the left, disappearing low behind a hill. It reappeared presently to the rear of the monster and, while the other machines kept up a barrage from in front, this lone helicopter came in on the target from behind.
The barrage of bullets that its pilot loosed downward almost tore off the great head of a creature which did not even see where the death came from.
Matlin walked forward with the others, angrily fingering the "claim" he had written out. It infuriated him that they were not offering to honor his rights. Even though he had expected it, the reality was hard to take.
Arrived at the truck, he stood impatiently by while the men examined the creature, the huge vehicle and the rifle. Matlin was drawn abruptly out of his irritated self-absorption with the realization that he had been twice addressed. Graham indicated the ten-foot rifle.
"What do you make of that?"
The question approach, the appeal to him on an equal basis, momentarily neutralized the timeless anger in Matlin. "Now!" he thought. He handed Graham his claim with the request, "I'd like you to sign this." Then he bent down beside the huge weapon and examined it.
He commented presently, "Looks like a pump action repeater, much like the one I've got, only many times as big. Could have been made by the same company."
It irritated him as he spoke to realize that Graham still held the claim sheet in his hand; had not even glanced at it.
Graham said in an odd tone, "What company?"
"Mine is a Messer," said Matlin.
Graham sighed and shook his head in bewilderment. "Take a look at the nameplate on that big gun," he said.
Matlin bent down. The word, "MESSER-made", stared back at him in indented, black metal lettering.
"And what's the name of your dump truck?" Graham asked.
Silently, Matlin loped around to the front of the over-sized truck, and peered up at the letters. They were exactly the same as on his own dump truck: FLUG.
When Matlin returned with the identification, Graham nodded, and then handed him back his claim sheet, and said evenly, "If I were to write that claim, Mr. Matlin, it would read: 'As the man who has done the most to prevent the creature from space being traced down, I recognize myself—' meaning you, Mr. Matlin— 'as the one person least qualified to receive the reward.' "
It was such an unexpected reaction, so instantly threatening to his rights, so totally negative, that Matlin blanched. But he was stopped by the words only for a moment. Then the anger poured.
"Why, you damned swindler!" he began.
"Wait!" Graham spoke piercingly, raised his hand in a warning gesture. His steely gray eyes were cynical as he continued: "Now, if you were to lead us onto the real backtrack, help us locate these creatures, I'll reconsider that judgment. Will you?"
Night came and caught them on the hunt.
As the monster-hunting expedition camped beside the lake, the darkness was shattered by a thunderous roaring sound. Matlin tumbled from the back seat of his car, ran to the lake shore, and peered across the dark waters toward the island in the lake's center. He was aware of other men coming up behind and beside him.
It was from the island that the noise came.
"Sounds like a whole battery of jet engines," somebody yelled above the roar, "and it seems to be coming this way."
Abruptly, the truth of that was borne out. The jet sound was suddenly above them. Framed in a patch of dark blue sky, a monstrous sized helicopter was momentarily visible.
It disappeared into a cloud bank. The great roaring receded, became a remote throb.
In the darkness, Graham came up beside Matlin, said, "Didn't you tell me you had a lakeside cabin near here?"
"Yeh." Matlin said wary.
"Got a boat there?"
Matlin jumped to a horrid conclusion. "You're not thinking of going over to the island?" he gulped. "Now!"
Graham said earnestly, "We'll pay you for the rent of the boat, and guarantee you against damages—in writing. And if that's the base these creatures operate from, I'll sign your claim."
Matlin hesitated. The boat and the lakefront property were his one dream. No one, not even Cora, had ever realized how much they meant to him. On the very day that he had killed the first monster, he had taken a load of sand from his farm and dumped it lovingly on the water's edge.
Standing there, Matlin visualized what the reward money would do for his dream: the rough shoreline fully sanded in, a hunting and fishing lodge, and a larger boat, the kind he had often fantasied but never managed to acquire.
"I'll do it," he said.
On the island, using his flashlight sparingly, Matlin led Graham and two other men to where the ground suddenly felt . . . harder.
When they dug down, they found metal bare inches under the grass.
Graham talked softly by two-way radio to the camp they had left and then held his radio for Matlin and himself to hear the answer: a parachute army would be called by way of the more powerful radio at the camp. By dawn, several hundred seasoned men with tanks, demolition units, and cannon would be down with them.
But, as the radio shut off, they were alone once more in the dark. The reinforcements of the morning were still hours away.
It was Matlin—again—who found the overhang that led into a huge, brightly lighted ship.
He was so intent, and interested, that he was inside the first chamber with the others before he clearly realized how far he had come.
He stopped. He half turned to run. But he didn't move.
The scene held him.
They were in a circular room about 400 feet in diameter. A number of solidly built metallic extrusions came up from the floor or down from ceiling. Except for them the room was empty.
Matlin went with the others to where a ramp led down to the next level. Here there were more of the huge, built-in machines—if that was what they were—but this level, also, was deserted.
On the third level, they found two sleeping "children".
Each lay on its back in a long, black, metal, box-like structure. The larger was about half the size of a full-grown alien, the smaller a mere bit of a thing two feet long. Both were stocky of body and were, unmistakably, younger versions of the two creatures that had already been killed.
As the three men—Graham and the two officers—glanced at each other questioningly, Matlin drew out his claim sheet, and held it toward Graham. The government agent gave him a startled look; then, evidently realizing Matlin meant it, he nodded resignedly, took the pen and signed.
The moment he had the claim sheet back in his hands, Matlin headed for the ramp.
He was sweating now with fear. Yet he realized he had had no alternative. He had to have that signature. But now—
. . . Get away from all this stuff that was none of his business!
When he reached the lakeshore, he started the motor of the motorboat, and headed back toward his boathouse. He locked up the boat, walked stealthily through the darkness to his car, and drove off.
As he came out of the line of trees a mile from his farm, he saw the entire yard was on fire. He heard the thunder of gigantic engines—
His house, his barn, his machine shed—all were burning! In the vivid, fitful light from the flames he saw the huge helicopter lift up from the far side and soar up into the night sky.
So that was where it had gone!
It passed by above him somewhat to his right, a colossal sound, the source of which was now completely invisible in the darkness of an overcast sky.
Matlin found Cora and the son that was not away at school crouching in the field. She mumbled something about the monster having come over and looked down at them. She said wonderingly, "How did it know this was your farm? That's what I don't understand."
The fire was dwindling. People were beginning to drive into the yard. Car doors slammed. In the fading brightness, Matlin in a bemused state carried his son and walked beside Cora to his station wagon.
He was having a different kind of thought. Why hadn't the creature killed his wife and child? Cora and the boy had been as completely at its mercy as the farm.
A neighbor named Dan Gray touched his arm and said, "How about you and Cora and the boy staying at my place tonight, Steve?"
By the time they got over on the Gray farm, a man was on TV describing how Steve Matlin had left three men at the mercy of the returning alien.
He named Matlin.
Matlin recognized the man who was talking as a member of the monster-hunting expedition.
He glanced around, saw that Gray, Gray's wife—a tall, thin woman—and Cora were staring at him. Cora said in horror: "Steve, you didn't!"
Matlin was amazed. "I'm going to sue that fellow for libel!" he yelled.
"Then it isn't true," Cora wailed. "What an awful thing for them to say such a lie!"
Matlin was outraged at her misunderstanding. "It's not a lie, just a bunch of baloney. Why should I stay on that island? If they want to be crazy, that's their business."
He saw from their faces that his perfectly obvious truth was not obvious to them. He became grim. "Okay, I can see I'm no longer welcome. Come along, Cora."
Mrs. Gray said, tightlipped, "Cora and the boy can stay."
Matlin was quite willing, already at peace with their foolishness. "I'll pick you up in the morning," he said to his wife.
Cora did not reply.
Gray accompanied Matlin to his car. When he came back into the living room, he was shaking his head. He said to Cora, "One thing about that husband of yours. He lets you know where he stands."
Cora said stiffly, "He's let me know once too often. Imagine leaving those men!" There were tears in her eyes.
"He says they lured him over to the island."
"Nobody lures Steve. His own scheming got him over there."
"He says he suddenly realized the generals had done it again—got a private into the front line. And since this was not his war—"
"If it isn't his war, whose is it? He fired the first shot."
"Well, anyway, the generals are on the firing line, and no one could care less than Steve. I can tell you that."
"'That's the astonishing thing," said Cora, wonderingly. "He thinks World War II was a conspiracy to waste his time. He lives entirely in his own private world. Nothing can shake him, as you just saw."
Matlin drove back to his farm and slept there in the back of his car.
When he returned to the Gray farm in the morning, Dan Gray came out to meet him. He was grinning. He said, "Well, Steve, it's finally going to be your war."
Matlin stared at the knowing smile on the somewhat heavy face of his neighbor, but the words seemed meaningless. So he made no reply but simply got out of his car and walked into the house.
The two women were watching the TV. Matlin did not even glance at the picture.
"Ready, Cora?" he said.
Both women turned and looked at him strangely. Finally, Mrs. Gray said breathlessly, "You're taking it very calmly."
"Taking what calmly?"
Mrs. Gray looked helplessly at Cora. "I can't tell him," she almost whispered.
Matlin glanced questioningly at his wife. She said, "You might as well hear it. The creature came back and found Mr. Graham and his two companions on the island. And it talked to them through some kind of mechanical translation device. It said it was going to leave earth but that first it was going to accomplish one thing. It said—it said—"
Matlin said impatiently, "For Pete's sake, Cora, let's go. You can tell me on the way."
Cora said, "It said—it was going to kill you first."
For once Matlin was speechless.
At last he stammered: "Me!" After a moment, he added, incredulous, "That's ridiculous. I haven't anything to do with this business."
"It says you're the only one on earth who made it your business."
The shock was growing on Matlin. He could not speak, could not deny the charge in words. Inside his head, he protested silently. "But that first beast was coming toward me. How was I supposed to know?"
Cora was continuing in a grief-filled voice: "It says that on all the planets it's visited, no one has ever before killed without warning, without asking any questions."
Matlin stared at her with hopeless eyes. He felt battered, defeated, ultimately threatened. For a moment, again, he could scarcely believe. He thought: "I only want to be left alone!"
The thought stopped. Because he knew suddenly that all these years he had been maintaining an untruth: that what went on elsewhere was none of his affair.
He had pretended so hard, gone into such instant rages, that other people simply glanced at each other significantly and fell silent, and thereafter never brought up the subject again. He had always thought with satisfaction, "By damn, they'd better not say anything but—" contemptuously— "let them think what they want."
And now, he was the only human being that a visitor from another planet felt motivated to kill . . .
He grew aware once more of Dan Gray's smile. The man spread his hands helplessly. "I can't help it, Steve. Believe it or not, I like you. I even think I understand you. But —forgive me, Cora—this seems to me to be a case of poetic justice. I can't think of anyone else who's had something like this coming to him for so long."
Matlin turned and walked out of the room. He was aware of Cora following him hastily. "Just a minute, Steve," she said, "I have something for you."
Matlin turned. They were alone in the hallway. He grew aware that she was tugging at her wedding ring. "Here," she said, "I should have given you this nineteen years ago, but I let the coming of our first child stop me."
She opened his palm, placed the ring in it, and closed his fingers over it. "You're on your own, Steve. After twenty years of being the most selfish, self-centered man in the world, you can face this as you should, by yourself."
Matlin scowled down at the ring, then: "Bah! When you look at me, you see the human race as it really is. I've never gone in for the shams, that's all."
He slipped the ring into his pocket.
"I'm going to keep this and give it back to you when you get over this foolish feeling. My feeling for you was never a sham."
He turned and walked out of the room and out of the house.
A car was pulling up in front of the Gray house. John Graham was inside it. He climbed out and walked over to where Matlin was about to get into his station wagon, said, "I came over to see you."
"Make it quick!" said Matlin.
"I have three messages for you."
"Shoot!"
"Obviously," said Graham, "the U.S. government will not allow one of its citizens to be casually exterminated."
Accordingly—he continued formally—all of the armed forces would be interposed between Steve Matlin and the alien.
Matlin stared at him with uncompromising hostility. "He can duplicate anything we've got, so those are just big words."
Graham said in the same formal way that the ability of the creature to duplicate, first, the rifle, then the truck, and then the helicopter, had been taken note of by the military.
Matlin's curt laugh dismissed as asinine the notion that the generals would know what to do with such information. "C'mon, c'mon," he said roughly, "what's the second message?"
"It's personal," said Graham.
He stepped forward. His fist came up, connected perfectly with Matlin's jaw. Mifflin was knocked back against his car. He sank to the ground, sat there rubbing his jaw and looking up at Graham. He said in an even tone: "Just about everybody seems to agree I had that coming to me, so I'll take it. What's the last message?"
Graham, who had evidently expected a battle, stepped back. His savage mood softened. He shook his head wonderingly. "Steve," he said, "you amaze me. Maybe I even respect you."
Matlin said nothing. He just sat there, elbows on knees.
After a moment, Graham continued: "The way the generals figure it, there's got to be another reason why the creature wants to kill you. Maybe you know something." His gray eyes watched Matlin closely. "Have you been holding anything back?"
Matlin shook his head but he was interested. He climbed slowly to his feet, frowning, thoughtful as he dusted himself off.
Graham persisted. "It is proposed that its ability to duplicate is based upon a kind of perception that human beings don't have."
"Hey!" said Matlin, eyes wide. "You mean like the homing pigeon, or birds flying south, or salmon coming back to their little pool where they were born?"
"The reasoning is," said Graham, "that you got some feedback on whatever it is, and so the creature wants to kill you before you can pass on to anybody else what you know."
Matlin was shaking his head. "They're off their rocker. I don't know a thing."
Graham watched him a moment longer. Then, clearly satisfied, he said, "Anyway, the military feel that they can't take a chance with a creature that has made a death threat against an American citizen. So they're going to drop an atomic bomb on it and end the matter once and for all."
For some reason, Matlin felt an instant alarm. "Just a minute," he said doubtfully. "Suppose it duplicates that? Then it'll have everything we've got, and we still won't have seen a thing it's got."
Graham was tolerant. "Oh, come now, Steve. The bomb will be a small one but the right size to pulverize that spaceship. I personally feel strong regrets about this but I have no doubt of the outcome. Once the bomb drops, it'll have nothing to duplicate with—and it won't be around to do any duplicating."
Matlin said, "Better tell them to hold that bomb till they've thought about it some more."
Graham was looking at his watch. "I'm afraid it's a little late for that, Steve. Because they figured you might have some telepathic connection with this creature, I've been holding back the fact that the bomb is being dropped—right—now!"
As he spoke, there was a sound of distant thunder.
Involuntarily, the two men ducked. Then they straightened and looked over the near farms, past the trees in the distance, beyond the low hills. A small but familiar and sinister mushroom was rising from the other side of the horizon.
"Well," said Graham, "that does it. Too bad. But it shouldn't have made that threat against you."
"What about the other ship?" Matlin asked.
"What other ship?" said Graham.
They had both spoken involuntarily. Now, they stared at each other.
'Graham broke the silence. "Oh, my God!" he said.
There were stubborn people at G.H.Q.
For two decisive days, they rejected the idea that there might be another ship.
Then, late in the afternoon of the third day, radar reported a small object high above field H from which the atomic plane had taken off to destroy the spaceship on the island.
Control tower challenged the approaching airborne machine. When there was no response, somebody became anxious and sounded a bomb alarm. Then he dived down a chute that took him head first into a shelter far below.
His quick action made him one of about 800 fast-reflex people who survived.
Seconds after he made his dive to safety, an atomic bomb demolished field H.
About the same time, a TV helicopter was hovering above the island in Matlin's lake, taking pictures of the bomb crater there. Suddenly a spaceship came silently down from great height and landed.
The helicopter did not tarry. It look rear view pictures as it was fleeing the scene.
Graham went to see Cora, looking for Matlin.
But she could only shake her head. "Steve said he was going on the road till this whole thing blew over. He said he figured he'd better not be sitting still when that creature came looking for him."
They put Matlin's photo on TV,
On the fourth day after that, Graham interviewed four sullen young men who had tried to seize Matlin, their intention being to deliver him to the monster. As their spokesman put it, "By handing over the one guy who was really involved in this business, the rest of us could have gone back to our daily affairs."
They filed out, one on crutches, two with arms in slings, all bandaged in some way, groaning a little.
The following day, Graham interrogated two people who claimed to have witnessed a duel on an open stretch of highway between Matlin in a station wagon and the monster flying an enormous jet plane. Matlin had had a bazooka and the beast had finally beat a retreat.
General Maxwell Day, who was with Graham, wondered aloud if Matlin might not be the man who had raided a Marine armory and taken a 3.5 rocket launcher and a quarter of a ton of ammunition for it.
Graham phoned Cora. "I'm checking a report," he said. "Would Steve have thought of utilizing Marine equipment?"
Cora answered carefully: "That weapon belonged to the people of the U.S., didn't it?"
"Well, then, I think Steve would regard himself as part owner, as a citizen, and without any guilt since he would consider either that he paid for it with taxes or earned it in World War II."
Graham put his hand over the mouthpiece, said, "I gather he would have thought of such a thing."
The Marine officer held his hand out for the phone. "Let me talk to her," he said. A moment later: "Mrs. Matlin?"
"Yes?"
"May I ask you some very personal questions about your husband?"
"You may."
"Now, Mrs. Matlin, Mr. Graham here has the highest respect for your opinions, so think carefully about this one: Is your husband intelligent?"
Cora hesitated; then: "I know exactly what you mean. On some levels, no; on others, extremely intelligent."
"Is he brave?"
"To hear him talk, no. But my feeling is, totally. I think you'd have to engage his interest, though."
"What does he think of generals?"
"They're idiots?
"Is he an honest man?"
"We-1-l-l-l, that depends. For example, he had that rifle along that first day in the hope that he'd be able to kill a deer illegally."
"I mean is he responsible for his debts?"
"If I may quote him—he wouldn't give the so and so's the satisfaction of owing them money."
General Day smiled. "Now, Mrs. Matlin, would you take your husband back if I made a sergeant out of him?"
"Why not a captain?"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Matlin, if you'll think a little bit, you'll realize that he'd never sink that low."
"Oh, I don't have to think. You're right. Well—yes, I might take him back. B-but he's not in the Marines anymore."
"He will be, Mrs. Matlin. Good-by."
He hung up.
An hour later it was announced on TV, radio and the newspapers that Matlin had been re-inducted into the Marines, and that he was ordered to report to the nearest Marine station.
About midnight that night a jet, with Graham and several officers aboard, flew down to the Marine base where Matlin was resignedly waiting for them. They secured a Marine private's uniform. As the grim, unshaved man reluctantly donned it, they interrogated him. They were interested in any thought whatsoever that may have flitted through Matlin's mind for any reason.
Matlin objected: "That's crazy. I don't know anything special—except the thing is out to get me."
"We think you do."
"But that's a lot of—"
"Private Matlin! That's an order!"
Glumly—but thoroughly—Matlin complied with the orders. He told them everything that had passed through his mind about the creature in the past few days. And there had been things, many things, things that had seemed crazy and distorted to him, until he thought he was beginning to lose his mind. Visions of a home on a planet of another star. Visions of long, long years of travel. Visions of the buried ship at the lake, where thousands of atomic bombs were in process of being duplicated.
His listeners turned pale, but Graham urged, "Go on."
Matlin continued: There was only one creature, but it had brought with it a number of spare bodies and could grow even more.
Then he stopped. "Damn it," he growled, "I don't like to say this stuff! Why do you want to hear it, anyway? It's just crazy dreams."
Graham glanced at the Marine commander, then at Matlin. He said, "Matlin, we don't think it's dreams at all. We think that you are in resonance—somehow!—with the creature's mind. And we need to know what it has in its mind—so, for heaven's sake, go on!"
The story, by the time Matlin got through piecing it together, made a pattern:
The alien had arrived in the solar system in two ships, with its bodies in various growth stages and evenly distributed between the two vessels. When one ship—and its cargo of bodies—was later destroyed, it made a duplicate, and now again had two.
As body after body was destroyed, the next in line was triggered into rapid growth and awakened to full adulthood in about two days. Each new body had the complete "memory" of what had happened to the ones that preceded it; it automatically recorded by ESP everything that happened to its preceding self.
On arrival, the first body had awakened in a state of total receptiveness. It had wanted to be able to duplicate the thoughts and feelings of the inhabitants of this newly found planet.
—Be like them, think like them know their language—
It was in this helpless, blank condition, when it stumbled on Steve Matlin.
And that was the story. The creature had been imprinted with the personality of Matlin.
Graham said, "Steve, do you realize that this being got all these destructive ideas from you?"
Matlin blinked. "Huh!"
Graham, remembering some things that Cora had told him, said, "Do you have any friends, Steve? Anybody you like? Anybody anywhere?"
Matlin could think of no one. Except, of course, Cora and the kids. But his feelings about them were not unmixed. She had insisted on sending the three older children to school in town. But he did feel a genuine affection for her, and them, at some level.
Graham said tensely, "That's why she's alive. That's why the creature didn't kill her the day it burned your farm."
"B-but—" Matlin protested, "why destroy the farm?"
"You hate the damn place, don't you?"
Matlin was silent. He'd said it a thousand times.
"What do you think we ought to do with about half the people in this country, Steve?"
"I think we ought to wipe the human race off the map and start over again," said Matlin automatically.
"What do you think we ought to do with the Russians?"
"If I had my way," said Matlin, "we'd go over there and plaster the whole of Asia with atomic bombs."
After a little, Graham said softly, "Like to change any of those ideas, Steve?"
Matlin, who had finished dressing, scowled into a mirror. "Look," he said finally, "you've got me where I can't hit back. And I'm ready to be loused up by what the idiot generals have got in their crazy noodles. So tell me what you want me to do."
At that precise moment, That ceased its feverish duplication of man's atomic bombs . . . and became itself.
Its compulsive mental tie with Matlin was severed.
Shuddering, That made a report, on an instantaneous relay-wave transmitter whose receiver was light-years away:
"What we always feared would happen on one of these blank mind approaches to a new planet finally happened to me. While I was enormously receptive to any thought, my first body was destroyed by a two-legged inhabitant of this system, a being with the most incredible ideas —which are apparently due to some early mistreatment. This inability to slough off early shock conditioning seems to be a unique phenomenon of the people of this planet.
"Realizing how trapped I was while he remained alive, I made several attempts to kill him. I was unsuccessful in this because he turned out to be unexpectedly resourceful. But he has now put on a suit called a uniform, and this has immediately turned him into a peaceful person.
"Thus I was able to free myself. Naturally, I can still sense where he is, but he can no longer receive my thoughts nor I his. However, I must report that I am pinned down here by an air fleet. My image as a goodwill visitor has been completely nullified by what has happened. Obviously, I won't use any weapons against them; so perhaps this expedition is doomed."
A team of astronauts was sent up. The team successfully boarded That's second spaceship, reporting that it was occupied by four bodies in various growth stages.
Even as they blew up the ship in its silent orbit, on earth Matlin was driven to the edge of the lake. There, a government launch was provided him. While Graham and General Day watched through binoculars, Matlin drove the $30,000 craft right onto the beach of the island, careless of any damage to it.
"I think he smashed the launch," said Graham.
"Good."
"Good?"
"My whole theory about him would collapse if he treated government property with the same care that he gave his own possessions. It reassures me that he's exactly the man I thought."
Matlin came to where the second alien ship lay at the bottom of the blast pit. Water had filtered down into the clay. Having his orders, Matlin dutifully slid down into the goo. He held his rifle high, cursed, and started for the entrance.
Graham, General Day, and an artillery major watched Matlin's progress on a portable TV. The picture was coming from a ship some 70,000 feet above the island. The scene below was crystal clear. Through the marvelous telescopic lens, Matlin actually looked like a tiny human being walking.
"But why send anyone?" Graham protested. "Why not just blast it? As you've already pointed out, we've got enough power up there—" he indicated the sky above — "to exterminate him."
General Day explained that he now favored Graham's earlier view. The alien might be able to defend itself.
"But it's too late for caution," Graham interjected. "We've burned our bridges."
It would be unwise, the Marine officer explained, to provoke the creature further until a confrontation had taken place.
"A confrontation between a super-being — and Matlin!"
"Who else should we send? Some poor devil? No, Matlin is oriented to this. Seeing the creature face on is not a new experience to him as it would be to some other lower ranks."
"Why not send you? Me?"
Day answered in a steady voice that such decisions as were required here should not be made by people who reasoned on the basis of official attitudes.
"How do you think I got to be a general? When in doubt, I listened to what the men thought. They have a basic canniness that transcends intellect."
With an effort, Graham recovered. "You heard Matlin's basic truth," he said. "His opinion of the human race —"
General Day gave him a surprised look. "You mean to tell me that isn't your opinion also?"
"You don't think that human beings are absolutely impossible?"
"No, I think they're pretty terrific," said Graham.
"Boy, are you far gone," said the general in a tolerant voice. "I can see that we Marines have an understanding of human behavior that beats all you brain-washed people." He broke off. "Matlin was badly handled in World War II."
"What?" Graham groped.
"You ask, what has that got to do with it? Plenty. You see, Mr. Graham, you have to understand that a true Marine is a king. Now, Matlin is the true Marine type. But he was treated like an ordinary private. He never got over it; so he's been seething for 20 years, waiting for recognition. I'm giving it to him. A king Marine, Mr. Graham, can direct a war, take command of a city, or negotiate with a foreign power like a government. Marines who get to be generals are considered sub-level versions of this species. All Marines understand this perfectly. It will not occur to Matlin to consult me, or you, or the U.S. Government. He'll size up the situation, make a decision, and I shall back him up."
He turned to the major, commanded, "All right, start firing!"
"Firing!" Graham yelled.
Day explained patiently as to a child that it was necessary in this extreme emergency to reindoctrinate this particular Marine, and grind in the simple truth — to him — that generals always loused things up. "A quick reminder, that's all, Mr. Graham."
Matlin was still skidding around in the mud when the first shell landed to his left. It sprayed him with fine droplets of wet dirt. The second shell landed to his right. The debris from it missed him entirely, but he was now in such state of rage that he didn't notice.
By the time the shelling ceased, his anger was gone and he was in that peculiar state of mind which can only be described with one word: Marine.
The man who presently entered the alien ship knew that life was tough, that other people could not be trusted, that no one cared about him. It was a truth he had always fought with bitterness and rage.
But there was no longer any doubt in his mind. People were what they were. They would shoot you in the back if they couldn't get you from in front.
Understanding this, you could be friendly with them, shake their hands. enjoy their company — and be completely free of any need to judge them or condemn them.
But you were on your own, day and night, year in and out.
As he saw the creature, Matlin used his gun for the purpose that he had brought it. Deliberately, he tossed.it down. It struck the metal floor with a clatter.
The echoes of the sound faded —and there was silence. Alien and human stood there staring.
Matlin waited.
Suddenly, the hoped-for voice came from a speaker in the ceiling:
"I am talking to you through a computer, which is translating my thoughts into your language. It will do the same for yours. Why have they sent you to me — the one man I threatened to kill?"
That added: "I no longer plan to kill you. So you may talk freely."
Matlin said bluntly, "We're trying to decide what to do with you. Do you have any suggestions?"
"I wish to leave the planet forever. Can you arrange it?"
Matlin was practical. Could the creature leave whether human beings like it or not? "No."
The simple negative took Matlin slightly aback. "You have no special weapons from — from where you come from?"
"None," admitted the alien.
That admission also startled Matlin. "You mean to tell me we can do what we want with you? You can't stop us?"
"Yes, except —"
Matlin wanted to know except what?
The great eyes blinked at him, its black, fold-like eyelids rolling up and down in a skin and muscle complex unlike that of any creature Matlin had ever seen before.
"Except that it will do you no good to kill me."
"You'd better make damn clear what you mean," Matlin said.
Watching him, That gave its explanation.
And Matlin realized that what That said was true. For once in the history of the human race, killing an enemy would solve nothing.
Matlin's boat was almost waterlogged by the time he successfully beached it near where Graham and the others were waiting.
He came up to them and saluted. General Day returned the salute smartly, and said: "Your report."
"I told him he could go," said Matlin. "He'll be leaving when I signal."
"What?" That was Graham, his voice sounding shrill and amazed in his own ears. "But why?"
"Never mind why," said General Day. "That's the way it's going to be."
He spoke into his mike: "Men, this alien ship is going to lift from here in a few minutes. Let it go through. A duly authorized person has negotiated this solution."
The language was not clear to Matlin. "Is it okay?" he asked questioningly.
For an instant, it seemed to Graham, Day hesitated. Graham said urgently into that instant: "At least, you're going to find out what made him agree?"
Day seemed to have come to a decision; his momentary hesitation ended. "Okay!" he said to Matlin. "Okay, sergeant."
Matlin raised his rifle, and fired it into the air.
To Graham, Day said, "I've never lost a bet on a king Marine, and I don't expect to now."
The interchange ended. For on the island, the ship was lifting.
Silent, jetless, rocketless power drove it up on a slant.
It passed over their heads, gathering speed. It grew small and, as they watched, became a dot and vanished.
Aboard it, the creature to which Matlin had talked performed the preliminaries necessary to an interstellar voyage, and then retired to one of the sleep boxes. Soon it was in a state of suspended animation . . .
Thereupon happened what the monster had told Matlin — the underlying reality, which made it useless, unnecessary, even dangerous, to destroy it and its vessel.
On a planet many light-years away, the real That stirred, awakened and sat up.
The Replicators - Kindle version
The Replicators - ePub version
[1] the cover image relates to another story in this issue, Small One by E. Clayton Mcarty.
Books/Cinema
- Trees
- Memoirs
- Genealogy
"The Expendables" (1963) - a space-exploration saga by A. E. van Vogt
"Haunted Atoms" (1951) - a rare golden-age sci-fi story by A. E. van Vogt
"The First Rull" (1978) by A. E. van Vogt
"The Ghost" (1942) by A. E. van Vogt
"The Witch" (1943) by A. E. van Vogt
"Ride In, Killer!" (1951) - a golden-age Western story by A. E. van Vogt
"The Perfect Day" (1981) by A. E. van Vogt - never before published in English
"The Proxy Intelligence" (1968) by A. E. van Vogt
"Rogue Ship" (1950) by A. E. van Vogt
"The Ultra Man" (1966) by A. E. van Vogt
2000-2021 — Prospero's Isle (SMITH - France)
Directeur de publication : V. & R. Smith
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This MSL Spotlight controller can be used either for 4 pieces XS150W-RGB or 6 pieces XS100W-RGB Flood/ Spot lights, the controller comes with 1.5 meter (5') lead wire and can be used on 120 Volt and 240Volt outlet (the power supply has a selector switch). The controller comes with a standard program and can be connect to a potential free N/O contact for steady white light (running on white only with out the color program for loading and unloading by example). Dimensions: 400mm (15.8") x 390mm (15.4") x 220mm (8.7") Weight: 12KG (26.2 LBS). Materials: Enclosure: FIberglass, Hinges: Aluminum, Locks: Stainless Steel.


UPVC porch leading to hallway with radiator, carpet to stairs and landing.
Landing with mirrored walk in wardrobe.
Gas fire, radiator, blinds, laminate flooring.
Range of base and wall units with gas hob and electric oven with extractor fan, radiator, blinds, laminate flooring.
White low level suite with p shaped bath and floating sink, radiator, fully tiled.
Block paved driveway to front.
Please Note: We have not tested any services,systems or appliances at the property.


On behalf of Smart Law A Professional Law Corporation posted in real estate disputes on Thursday, January 31, 2019.
Many people in California live in densely populated urban and suburban areas. Everyone expects some noise, but excessive disturbances that impact a person's quality of life could create tension between neighbors. When late-night parties or barking dogs irritate a person, a friendly or at least civil conversation with the noisy neighbor should be the first step.
Ideally, the complaint should be framed in a way that acknowledges that the person might simply not have realized how disturbing the noise was. The conversation gives someone a chance to reform behavior and reduce noise. Unfortunately, these informal complaints do not always resolve the situation. A noisy neighbor might react with hostility and continue to make noise. When a neighbor ignores a request to quiet down, then written complaints are appropriate.
The letter should state the nature of the noise and include documentation about city ordinances that specify acceptable times for parties and other noise. The rules for a homeowners' association or apartment community could also apply. The letter needs to include the dates and times that disturbances happened and indicate that authorities will be notified the next time inappropriate noise occurs. If someone feels threatened by a neighbor or wild parties are taking place, then the person should call police.
A neighbor dispute might make someone feel unsafe at home and therefore motivate legal action. An attorney could identify local laws that could apply to the situation and prepare a written complaint that asks the person to halt troublesome activities. This letter might outline penalties for violating noise ordinances or property rights. In threatening cases, an attorney might recommend involving law enforcement or seeking a restraining order. If filing a lawsuit becomes necessary, then an attorney could prepare legal paperwork and communicate the details of the case in court.


text:
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Culture, Race & Politics
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Ask Me About Books! Click Here to Send the Title! Got 99 Problems But BOOKS Ain't One!
There Will Be No Miracles Here
The testament of a boy and a generation who came of age as the world came apart—a generation searching for a new way to live. Casey Gerald comes to our fractured times as a uniquely visionary witness whose life has spanned seemingly unbridgeable divides. His story begins at the end of the world: Dallas, New Year's Eve 1999, when he gathers with the congregation of his grandfather's black evangelical church to see which of them will be carried off. His beautiful, fragile mother disappears frequently and mysteriously; for a brief idyll, he and his sister live like Boxcar Children on her disability checks. When Casey—following in the footsteps of his father, a gridiron legend who literally broke his back for the team—is recruited to play football at Yale, he enters a world he's never dreamed of, the anteroom to secret societies and success on Wall Street, in Washington, and beyond. But even as he attains the inner sanctums of power, Casey sees how the world crushes those who live at its margins. He sees how the elite perpetuate the salvation stories that keep others from rising. And he sees, most painfully, how his own ascension is part of the scheme.
There Will Be No Miracles Here has the arc of a classic rags-to-riches tale, but it stands the American Dream narrative on its head. If to live as we are is destroying us, it asks, what would it mean to truly live? Intense, incantatory, shot through with sly humor and quiet fury, There Will Be No Miracles Here inspires us to question—even shatter—and reimagine our most cherished myths.
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Q: how to create a pop up on a download button click i have a requirement in which on click of download button a zip file gets downloaded, now the download happens on the ui layer but the url is a API call (HANA) and it gets downloaded in the same page. Now, as there is no data, the zip file gets downloaded within very less time, but when in production scenario, the zip file would take some time to download.
In this scenario, i need a pop-up such as "please wait... download in progress" so that the user doesn't get confused what is happening. I am using AngularJS
i have tried windows.location.assign() but i need a pop-up to display some text with ok or cancel button
this is my .html code
<button class="btn btn-primary" style="margin-right:10px;" ng-click="downloadData()">Download</button>

and my .js code
$scope.downloadData = function(){
    try{
        waitingDialog.show('Please wait!!!',{dialogSize: 'sm'});
        window.location.assign(Config.endpoints.getDownloadPreviewData.url);
        waitingDialog.hide();
    }
    catch(err){
        $scope.showAlert('Some problem occured during the download, kindly try after some time', $scope.closeAlert);
    }
}

A: If you want fancy popups you can use Ionic with Ionic Popups
Ionic works great with AngularJS!
If you don't want to use Ionic you can use something like angular-bootstrap. They have some nice popups too!
If all else fails you may want to have a look at this.
Hope it helps!

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


text:
Why These Tweets Are Called My Back
By Shaadi Devereaux December 19, 2014
art by imp kerr
So-called Toxic Twitter is made up of marginalized women of color for whom social media started out as yelling into the void and became a grassroots movement.
We are Toxic Twitter. The unnamed women frothing at the mouth in our underground internet lair who emerge only during the full moon of each news cycle to drink the blood of your favorite white feminists. Whenever you hear the refrain "Twitter is going to get you!" from the mouths of everyone from Oprah to CNN pundits, we are who they are referring to. We are bad for your career. We are bad for brands. We say good things, but watch out or we'll swallow you whole.
It's no mistake that established media demean what is in many cases the one platform to which marginalized women have access. You've been told to watch us but not engage: the very definition of surveillance. You cannot work in the media without being aware of the conversations we are having, lest you risk becoming obsolete and uninformed, yet you must carefully keep your distance. Our skills and thought are taken, sanitized and offered through different mouths, with different agendas. Our content is gold, but like all gold it must first be extorted, extracted or stolen from wherever it is found, then set free to circulate in other hands.
In a recent digital blackout, a group of feminists of color decided to pull back our labor and take a break from abuse, trolling, content mining and stalking. We found ourselves in a position where those who had the credentials to benefit from the work of poor women of color were centered over our safety to continue the work. Honorariums, flights, speaking engagements, brands, grants and cachet seemed only to flow upward from us as our content and thought were recycled without our bodies present. Surveillance without engagement meant there were no frameworks for inviting us to write essays or speak on official platforms about the issues affecting us most. We saw the use of our disembodied thought without advocacy of our interests.
We have been constantly months ahead of the news cycle, and seen reflections and outright copies of our work in spaces to which we are denied access. Non-profits and big names with large followings present at conferences and lead anti-violence campaigns using our digital framework—and in many cases, stolen work. What does this appropriation by professional activists of anti-violence work mean for poor women of color and their relationship to labor? How do we create anti-violence frameworks that acknowledge existing models of community support among the most vulnerable women?
"Toxic Twitter" is largely made up of Afro-indigenous, Black, and NDN women using technology to discuss our lives. The established media sees us as angry and impossible to please, waiting to rip people apart like a pack of Audre Lorde were-feminists. But we cannot look at the presence of marginalized women in digital spaces without considering our oppression. What some are truly afraid of are the layers that begin to unfold if we take a more careful look at how women are using Twitter to engage with a movement they previously had trouble connecting to because of disability, interpersonal violence that limited their movement, marginalized motherhood with little support, transphobia and class. When our voices come to the fore, mainstream organizations and anti-violence movements have to come to terms with the fact that we might have a different vision.
All too often, conventional approaches to justice prioritize the production of the abuser over the experience of the victim. One the first things said to me about my abuser when I faced some of my online abuse in the form of misgendering was, "But she does good work." Every discussion of my abuse started not with the transphobic behavior of my abuser, but the work she does. We see a similar dynamic in people's immediate defense of Bill Cosby's and Woody Allen's body of work before we are allowed to discuss the stories of their victims. But what happens when even anti-violence movements center labor and production rather than the safety of marginalized women of color? And, given the focus on "doing good work," why is the labor and production of marginalized women of color so often erased or appropriated in the process?
Anti-violence organizations often truly believe they are doing good work, for the benefit of marginalized women. Depending on the organization, perhaps they are. But when these same women want to have a say in the direction anti-violence work moves in, professional activists have to stop, take stock, and have hard conversations. That is not delaying the movement or putting it behind–it's the necessary work that we have seemed to miss in every generation when the non-profits dull their blades for grants and leave women unsupported. There is no "good of the movement" if women are not safe and valued. You cannot have a sustainable movement for ending violence without marginalized women at the grassroots level booted into its matrix and present in movement spaces. And when women express concerns about exploitation and abuse, it is counterproductive to label us ungrateful, lazy and lacking foresight.
Most of us started our social media accounts as women "yelling into the void," as Twitter user @so_treu says. Her words express the experience most of us had. These spaces were created without us in mind. I doubt marginalized women pushing back against state-led anti-violence initiatives were high on the list of potential users in Twitter's start-up design. For @so_treu, digital feminism is a space where she can engage with other black women overlooked in the academy, spread their work, and offer her own analysis on black artforms.
We have many different stories but what most of us had in common was this sensation of being isolated and yelling into space. Astonishingly, however, other women began to answer. Soon we noticed the voices of feminists of color everywhere online, shedding the constraints of misogynist respectability, adopting spandex as praxis, and detailing the experiences of marginalized and multifaceted womanhoods. Social media has lifted the barrier between consumers of media and media itself, transforming that relationship into one of active engagement. It has also lifted the barrier between women like us–displaced, disabled, trans, indigenous and black–and the parts of society that were never supposed to deal with us. The nightlights of kyriarchy were turned off and the dark figures of their imagination began to rise from the cellar they had stuffed all of us into. Suddenly a black trans woman denied access to any space you might enter is right here talking back to you with nuanced media critiques. A journalist can put up an article and within seconds readers are challenging the ethics of the reporting and the framing of subjects who can no longer be rendered passive.
There has been a shift from charismatic leaders as gatekeepers to our stories and when they matter, to taking our stories into our own hands using digital platforms. Those of us who never make it to a prized slot on MSNBC or have our names on a who's-who list of young feminists can sign on to Twitter or use google chats to discuss the needs of our community, host teach-ins, work through experiences of sexual violence, build awareness around voices that would never be handed a megaphone at a rally, and bring in younger women to flex their voices and show them that feminism is also for them. As small collectives of women, we created what governments, charities, and corporations dream of: sustainable conversations in a digital space that happen daily and tie in global perspectives, and continuously grow a huge movement base.
The work we do covers a large swathe of global experiences: building understanding of antiblackness, analyzing racial hierarchies, explaining 500 years of colonialism, reimagining settler colonialism to understand Afro-indigeneity, centering trans women of color, and anything else we manage to fit into 140 characters. Marginalized women of color have built a base for a sustainable movement to end violence. How that base is mobilized, however, will depend on how we and women like us are supported. Will others go on labeling us as toxic, or will our experiences finally be centered? Most importantly, whatever happens, we have found each other: Black trans women, Afro Latinas, Afro-indigenous, and NDN women who listened to each other when no one else did, until everyone else did. Our conversations among ourselves, treated throughout colonial history as babble or gossip, turned out to be the best thing on the Internet.
We are constantly told to back away from our computers and do real work and form real community, but if you can't respect us digitally what would make us feel safe enough to engage you in person? If you can't respect us at this very basic level of 140 characters, what makes you think you will be able to beyond "the limits of the medium"? (And what does it mean when those who have structural advantage over us define a space we use with startling proficiency as "limited"?) We are asked to relinquish the physical protection we have in online spaces, show up to and engage in person with a movement that has ignored all our best efforts at talking back to it. We are called upon to physically traverse spaces that consider our safety petty infighting and an impediment to the real work of the movement.
The dominant conversations on grassroots digital feminism—and to be clear, that's what "Toxic Twitter" is—ignore the fact that the last recourse of women who are pushed out of community on every angle is often the Internet. My inbox is flooded with messages from trans women of color rejected by their families, communities, and partners—if they even had access to those things in the first place. Not only do they face violence from the state, including the police, but also from the people attending any given rally. We fall through the cracks of the LGBTQ movement, anti-violence organizing, race coalitions and non-profits. Trans women of color write to me to express amazement I can simply take up space online, and be heard and recognized.
Grassroots digital feminism is often the only type of work that reaches those who are silenced at every step, and who rediscover their voices online, where no one can hold their mouths closed. Seeing other women do this work acts almost as permission to be alive and to engage the world we live in ourselves. Is it the only way? No. Does it have its limits? Yes. But why do we only focus on the limits of digital space, writing article and didn't-think-piece after didn't-think-piece, as opposed to focusing on the limits of and the interpersonal abuse that goes on in offline spaces?
Others take apart grassroots digital feminism like a HAM radio, finding all the possible reasons for it not to matter, while doing nothing to make other forms of engagement safe and accessible for women. And so we are left floating about in space. We cobble together stars, meteors, black holes, and Milky Ways only for our detractors to then want that too and become incensed that we dare to speak. Women like us are supposed to always be subjects. We are supposed to remain strange aliens who can never quite make a landing and thus freeze in the realm of the theories of those who really matter. We should remain silent on the operating tables in Roswell as they discover that we are different, not because we are toxic, but because we have two hearts instead of one.
The reality is that for most of us the work we do both online and off stems from our dedication to each other. The time we spend together online is devoted to navigating disabilities, helping each other survive sexual or transphobic assaults, confronting antiblack misogyny and violence against Indigenous women, defending Beyoncé, and even sharing horribly hilarious dating stories. This intense solidarity means we have been able to survive entire campaigns directed at silencing us. Just by living and speaking online, we fly in the face of a whole network of capitalist and patriarchal interests: A state that wants to police our labor and restrict our movement, the men who are supposed to be our placeholders, and the movements that center anybody but us while using our pain as legitimation.
In the end, this is a battle over narrative ground, over who gets to tell their own story and receive resources for it. Our feminism is intersectional not merely as cutting-edge praxis but as a result of the community we've built by standing by one another, listening daily to women who don't matter anywhere else, calling out abuse no matter how it hurts our immediate interests, and galvanizing that community in the face of violence. We will never be put forward for prestigious positions, but as a result we are also free. Free black, Afro-indigenous and NDN women, however, are also enemies of the state, and so we complicate the politics of those whose anti-state rhetoric begins and ends on the pages of academic journals.
The number one priority of any movement dedicated to ending violence should be to bring marginalized grassroots women into all spaces, make them feel safe and prioritize their voices. How might the history of our movements have been different if we centered the Fannie Lou Hamers, Sylvia Riveras, Marsha P Johnsons, and Audre Lordes while they were alive instead of making them totems after their deaths?
We can temporarily disable our accounts but we can't temporarily disable our lives. When it comes to marginalized women, we worship their graves instead of honoring their lives in the moment. Why can we only listen to these women once their mouths are closed? And what new ways of resistance might we find if we followed their voices in life? In the memory of these women and all those who were forgotten, we have closed our mouths for a brief moment in life to love one another in life. As this blackout ends and women begin to think more about how they navigate space, will we honor them in life or fight them every step of the way, only to place rings of flowers over their graves? As my mother and grandmother always told me when I was a brat, "Give me my flowers while I'm living."


Municipal Chief Executive (MCE) for Asokwa Municipal Assembly, Mr. Akwanuasa Gyimah, has begun a 2-day working tour in the area aimed at interacting with people of the new district and learn at first hand challenges confronting them for redress.
Areas visited so far included Asokwa extension, Asokwa old town and Okomfo Badukrom among others.
Addressing residents of Asokwa extension, Mr. Akwanuasa stated that the assembly being a young one lacks the necessary infrastructure and finance therefore needed the support of all people for accelerated development in the area.
He however called on the people of the Asokwa area to start paying property rate and other taxes to enhance the work of the Assembly.
Some residents who were in attendance called on the MCE to address the issue of security especially at night. They said series of robbery and other criminal cases have been recorded in Asokwa extension lately.
Bad road network within Asokwa Extension was another serious concern of the people.
Authorities of the Asokwa Presbyterian Junior High School (JHS) and primary school also appealed to the MCE to help resource their computer laboratory and fencing of the school to prevent further encroachment.
In a response, Mr. Akwanuasa promised that the Assembly will do its best to attend to get all the challenges resolved. The Asokwa MCE announced a reconstruction of the Ahinsan to Sewua junction road will soon commence.
He added that the congested main Atonsu-Agogo lorry terminal which has become a major contributor to the heavy traffic in the area is about to be relocated even before works on the road begins.