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text stringlengths 8 417	audio audioduration (s) 0.72 29.2
For my Mother and Father-
STEPHEN CRANE
"One minute," a voice said, and the time buzzer sounded.
The buzzer's whirr triggered his muscles into complete relaxation.
The nagging memory of the previous night loomed up then, and he turned it over and over in his mind, examining it from all sides.
The words were whispered but clear-two voices, just outside the thin metal of his door.
"Ten seconds."
He was unhappily conscious of his total exhaustion.
The month of continuous mental and physical combat had taken its toll.
It would be hard to stay on his feet, much less summon the strength and skill to fight and win a touch.
"How do we stand?" he asked the handler who was kneading his aching muscles.
"Four four.
All you need is a touch to win!"
That was really all that counted now.
This was allowed.
Self hypnosis was an accepted tool.
Common as the phenomenon seemed to be in the textbooks, it proved impossible to duplicate.
Berserkers and juramentados continue to fight and kill though carved by scores of mortal wounds.
Death seemed an inescapable part of this kind of strength. But there was another type that could easily be brought about in any deep trance-hypnotic rigidity.
Working with this as a clue, Brion had developed a self hypnotic technique that allowed him to tap this reservoir of unknown strength-the source of "second wind," the survival strength that made the difference between life and death.
Brion saw something close to panic on his opponent's face when the man finally recognized his error.
Thrust-thrust-and each time the parrying sword a little slower to return.
Except that something was wrong and it was like walking through warm glue.
"That's all he needs too," Brion grunted, opening his eyes to look at the wiry length of the man at the other end of the long mat.
He had a standing order with off planet agents for archaic chess books, the older the better.
But as soon as the scores began to mount and eliminations cut into their ranks, there was complete silence after dark.
Brion wasn't tiring.
There was silence then and, still wondering, Brion was once more asleep.
Now stand aside!"
No, not walking, falling.
With each passing second the power drew at the basic reserves of life, draining it from his body.
Only his heart and lungs worked on at a strong, measured rate.
The other voice snapped with a harsh urgency, clearly used to command.
The force of his rush was so great that the guards on their weapons locked, and their bodies crashed together.
"Don't talk like an idiot!"
And when he attacked, it was always there to beat him aside.
Every man who entered the Twenties had his own training tricks. Brion had a few individual ones that had helped him so far.
"Out!" was the single snarled word of the response.
Others had died before during the Twenties, and death during the last round was in some ways easier than defeat.
He reacted-but his blade just met air.
At last.
He must have drawn his gun, because the intruder said quickly, "Put that away.
He didn't attempt to attack, just let Brion wear himself out against the firm shield of his defense.
The contestants in the Twenties needed undisturbed rest, therefore nights in the dormitories were as quiet as death.
You're being a fool!"
The slap of the button on flesh and the arc of steel that reached out and ended on Irolg's chest over his heart.
He could feel with acute sensitivity, hear, and see clearly when he opened his eyes.
His eyes closed and he was only distantly aware of his handlers catching him as he fell, carrying him to his bench. While they massaged his limp body and cleansed the wound, all of his attention was turned inward.
Someone spoke his name.
Whoever said you could was making a big mistake and there is going to be trouble-"
This is physically impossible when conscious.
In and under the guard.
Just thrust and parry, and victory to the stronger.
If anything, he was pressing the attack.
Walking on his knees.
Then the powerful twist that thrust it aside.
A red haired mountain of a man, with an apparently inexhaustible store of energy.
Particularly so on this last night, when only two of the little cubicles were occupied, the thousands of others standing with dark, empty doors.
When the buzzer sounded he pulled his foil from his second's startled grasp, and ran forward.
Of course not.
Brion had carefully conditioned the reflex in himself.
Next instant Shaggy was himself again and Quox said to him grumblingly:
Quox did not have much to say until the conversation was ended, but then he turned to Kaliko and asked:
"Me?" stammered the Chamberlain, greatly surprised by the question. "Well, I couldn't be a worse King, I'm sure."
"Hooray!" cried Betsy; "I'm glad of that.
Very willingly," replied Kaliko.
All the trees are gold and silver and the ground is strewn with precious stones, so it is a sort of treasury."
"Oh, no; I'm quite sure he didn't.
But to disappear like that seems like magic; now, doesn't it?"
They agreed that it did, but no one could explain the mystery.
"However," said Shaggy, "they are gone, that is certain, so we cannot help them or be helped by them.
"Of course not," said he, jumping up from the throne, where he had seated himself.
"Don't worry," replied Quox.
"Please get off my left toe, Shaggy Man, and be more particular where you step."
"Not exactly," returned Kaliko.
"So I think I will assemble the chief nomes of my kingdom in this throne room and tell them that I am their new King. Then I can ask them to assist us in searching for the secret passages.
They fell into the big pit in the passage, and we put the cover on to keep them there; but when the executioners went to look for them they had all disappeared from the pit and we could find no trace of them."
Kaliko hesitated.
"I hope he doesn't work too hard," said Shaggy.
"In the Metal Forest."
"That's funny," remarked Betsy thoughtfully.
"Do you suppose Ruggedo destroyed them?"
"The Ugly One?
"He doesn't work at all.
"Of course," said Kaliko.
King Kaliko
But is my dear brother well?" he added anxiously.
Betsy laughed and Shaggy seemed rather hurt; but Polychrome relieved his embarrassment by saying softly: "One can be ugly in looks, but lovely in disposition."
"Where is that?"
"True," agreed Kaliko.
Sculpture he regards as 'Painting's poor relation'; so, with the exception of a jaunty allusion to the 'rough modelling' of Tanagra figurines he hardly refers at all to the plastic arts; but on painters he writes with much vigour and joviality.
There is a healthy bank holiday atmosphere about this book which is extremely pleasant.
To many, no doubt, he will seem to be somewhat blatant and bumptious, but we prefer to regard him as being simply British.
After listening so long to the Don Quixote of art, to listen once to Sancho Panza is both salutary and refreshing.
Portrait painting is a bad pursuit for an emotional artist as it destroys his personality and his sympathy; however, even for the emotional artist there is hope, as a portrait can be converted into a picture 'by adding to the likeness of the sitter some dramatic interest or some picturesque adjunct'!
He rollicks through art with the recklessness of the tourist and describes its beauties with the enthusiasm of the auctioneer.
A 'JOLLY' ART CRITIC
About artists and their work mr Quilter has, of course, a great deal to say.
Sententiae: Artis: First Principles of Art for Painters and Picture Lovers.
And then the picture he draws of the ideal home, where everything, though ugly, is hallowed by domestic memories, and where beauty appeals not to the heartless eye but the family affections; 'baby's chair there, and the mother's work basket . . . near the fire, and the ornaments Fred brought home from India on the mantel board'!