But I wrote first drafts much better and faster during the day, and I sometimes wondered if, the cult of the overnighter aside, most of my colleagues would have, too. At some point in my first year, I’d realized that the all-night writing sessions were, in a different way from the sketches, largely performative. Occasionally, it really did take six hours to write a sketch, but far more often, people fucked around for five hours then wrote a sketch in forty minutes. At any point on the writers’ hall, as Tuesday turned into Wednesday, you were as likely to see someone goofing off as typing. The TNO writing staff was still three-quarters male, and they’d be wrestling or making bets or peeing in trash cans. Some writers or cast members left before midnight to do a set at a comedy club; returned to wrestle, make bets, or pee in a trash can; then started writing. But these days, I knew of only one cast member who used hard drugs at work. Far more of my co-workers wore Fitbits, drank kale juice, and meditated in their off hours, or at least claimed to. It was Nigel himself who was clearly a natural-born night owl, and though the schedule he’d set in the beginning seemed objectively crazy, it was after all this time justified by an if-it-ain’t-broke logic. Many sketches that had found their way into the country’s collective consciousness and spawned beloved characters and catchphrases had indeed been written at one or three or four-thirty in the morning. And really, if you were lucky, Tuesday was just the beginning. If one or more of your sketches made it past the table read, you might stay up late on any or all of the remaining nights until Saturday, rewriting, rehearsing, or directing a shoot for a pre-tape. Then you’d probably stay up all night Saturday, too, commiserating or celebrating at the after-parties, because your sketch had been cut at the last minute and you felt despondent or because your sketch had made it to air but bombed and you felt despondent or because your sketch had aired and killed and you felt exhilarated. Prior to joining the show, I’d kept typical sleeping and waking hours, but TNO truly had rewired my biology, as if I were a third-shift factory worker except vastly better paid, or an ER doctor except not saving anyone’s life. It now seemed normal to me that most people arrived at the office around 5 p.m. on Tuesday, and we placed our orders for dinner around 9 p.m. I spent the hours before and after dinner working with cast members, most often Viv and Henrietta, on sketches they were developing. Around one or two, I lay on the couch in my office, set a T-shirt over my eyes and earplugs in my ears, and, except when I was awakened by chaos in the hall, I nodded off for about five hours, which was downright decadent by TNO standards. I’d set my phone alarm to go off at six or seven then


an angle of the hedge close by the highroad, and just a little lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream. "Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three miles off. "It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you advise." We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his cuttings. "Here is an advertisement which will interest you," said he. "It appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this: 'Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, and has not been heard of since. Was dressed in,' etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I fancy." "Good heavens!" cried my patient. "Then that explains what the girl said." "Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford." Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together, bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its centre. "There you are," said he. "That circle is drawn at a radius of ten miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that line. You said ten miles,


met is gonna happen upon that clog and have to deal with it, probably for less money than they deserve. When I walk into a public bathroom stall, the first thing I do is flush the toilet, especially if I have to poop. You only need the shock of unfamiliar lukewarm sewage water rising to gently kiss your butt cheeks one time to learn the hard way that some asshole—probably you—clogged it before you unsuspectingly got there and plopped down to get to work. If the toilet doesn’t flush or feels weak, I move on to a less potentially humiliating toilet bowl, so this nightmare doesn’t happen to me. BUT IF IT DID: the first thing I would do is look around to see if there were any tools to help me undo my damage. I peed in my local Trader Joe’s a few mornings ago (I am trying something my rheumatologist suggested called “remaining hydrated,” which mostly means driving to different places and hoping I don’t piss my pants there), and they had a full bathroom situation with a changing table—handy if you need to fully disrobe in order to take a huge, messy shit, but don’t want to get any on your dress and also don’t want to put your outfit on a ground people urinate on. Anyway, they also had multiple soaps, a hand dryer, and paper towels, in case you hate Earth, and both a plunger and a bowl-cleaning brush. If you look around and see those, use them. Yes, that wet squashsquashsquash-lactation-slash-grunting noise the plunger makes as you try to suck your shit out of the toilet’s throat is embarrassing, but not more than thinking about another person looking at your stool! If there’s no plunger, but there is a cleaning brush or any other sticklike implement, you could (and I have) try to break it up into manageable, flushable pieces? But then you’re left with the dilemma of what to do with a plastic wand with poop on it, which I would try to clean with hand sanitizer, but I understand that that is absolutely unhinged behavior and a consequence of my prison brain. Okay, so, I guess my answer is plunge if you can, break it up if you can figure out how to do so without splattering shit everywhere, and failing either of those, you gotta walk out of there saying, “DON’T USE THAT STALL, I AM VERY HEALTHY AND CONSUME A LOT OF BEANS, SOMEONE PLEASE ALERT THE CUSTODIAN WHILE I WAIT HERE AND STAND GUARD” at the top of your lungs. So, basically, the opposite of ghosting. You literally have to enter holy matrimony with that poor toilet. If you are staying in someone’s home and using their shower, what products can you use from their shower? I feel like everything is fair game here. If the person hosting you is me, then I have already mentally walked through 123 scenarios for how your stay in my house might get fucked up by me, by my terrible pets, or by the items


aloud: 'Julia! Julia! Julia, my love! Julia!' For a moment he had had an overwhelming hallucination of her presence. She had seemed to be not merely with him, but inside him. It was as though she had got into the texture of his skin. In that moment he had loved her far more than he had ever done when they were together and free. Also he knew that somewhere or other she was still alive and needed his help. He lay back on the bed and tried to compose himself. What had he done? How many years had he added to his servitude by that moment of weakness? In another moment he would hear the tramp of boots outside. They could not let such an outburst go unpunished. They would know now, if they had not file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (153 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:52 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt known before, that he was breaking the agreement he had made with them. He obeyed the Party, but he still hated the Party. In the old days he had hidden a heretical mind beneath an appearance of conformity. Now he had retreated a step further: in the mind he had surrendered, but he had hoped to keep the inner heart inviolate. He knew that he was in the wrong, but he preferred to be in the wrong. They would understand that--O'Brien would understand it. It was all confessed in that single foolish cry. He would have to start all over again. It might take years. He ran a hand over his face, trying to familiarize himself with the new shape. There were deep furrows in the cheeks, the cheekbones felt sharp, the nose flattened. Besides, since last seeing himself in the glass he had been given a complete new set of teeth. It was not easy to preserve inscrutability when you did not know what your face looked like. In any case, mere control of the features was not enough. For the first time he perceived that if you want to keep a secret you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that could be given a name. From now onwards he must not only think right; he must feel right, dream right. And all the while he must keep his hatred locked up inside him like a ball of matter which was part of himself and yet unconnected with the rest of him, a kind of cyst. One day they would decide to shoot him. You could not tell when it would happen, but a few seconds beforehand it should be possible to guess. It was always from behind, walking down a corridor. Ten seconds would be enough. In that time the world inside him could turn over. And then suddenly, without a word uttered, without a check in his step, without the changing of a line in his face--suddenly the camouflage would be down and bang! would go the batteries


upstairs wondering how long I have to stay. My dad’s not here anymore and I hate this house because of it. The house that I left him alone in. I’m not really here. I’m not really here. Everything is fine because I’m not really here. The sun bursts in through the window and I have to shield my eyes before closing the curtains. Chapter Twenty Ben I’m here if you need me xx It’s an ordinary week within the most extraordinary circumstances because apparently—and this is what everyone fails to mention about the grieving process—I still have to live. Nia has a few assignments to turn in still, which she can do online, so during the day she sets herself up in the living room. On Wednesday she makes me pancakes and we watch TV. She opens her laptop to complete a project, and I say I need the toilet but end up closing the door of my bedroom. I get into bed and watch TV on my phone. By the afternoon, I don’t know how many episodes I’ve watched. Nia calls me down for lunch, but I say I’m still full from breakfast. Mum calls. “The funeral home says we need to go there and fill out some forms.” “Oh, okay.” “No, I’m going to get your father’s brother to do that when he arrives, since Mabel is still in Ghana trying to change her return date,” she says. “You’re too young. Only twenty-five and burying your father, it shouldn’t be on you. I’m going to make sure Freddie does it. I don’t want that on your shoulders.” “Thank you, Mum.” “That’s why I’m here, darling.” “I love you.” “I love you too, Maame.” * * * Nia and I go for a walk across Battersea Riverside whilst Nia tells me about one of her professors—long story short, Nia is not a fan. We then talk about school; we agree we feel nostalgic but would never go back. Nia returns to her laptop and I try to read but the words swim on the page and the attempt itself is exhausting so I get into bed until dinner, which is sweet potato and roasted vegetables. We eat together and start a thriller series called The Cabin Plan. We watch four episodes before bed. * * * On Thursday, Nia sleeps in and I sit on the sofa, staring into the garden. I search my phone for the latest picture of Dad. When I can’t find it, I panic because it’s the only one I have. “Oh God, oh God, please no.” I scroll through picture after picture of pretty buildings and food. Finally, I find and favorite it so it’s easier to reach next time. In the picture, James has dragged a chair to the front door so that Dad could sit outside. He hadn’t been outside in a very long time; I’d guess months, but if I force myself to think, it could have been years. It’s a horrifying thought, which even the most dedicated of introverts would balk at


something, almost childishly so. "Hey, this is really terrific, this is just far too much!" "What's so great about being stuck in a dust cloud?" said Ford. "What would you reckon to find here?" urged Zaphod. "Nothing." "No stars? No planets?" "No." "Computer!" shouted Zaphod, "rotate angle of vision through one- eighty degrees and don't talk about it!" For a moment it seemed that nothing was happening, then a brightness glowed at the edge of the huge screen. A red star the size of a small plate crept across it followed quickly by another one - a binary system. Then a vast crescent sliced into the corner of the picture - a red glare shading away into the deep black, the night side of the planet. "I've found it!" cried Zaphod, thumping the console. "I've found it!" Ford stared at it in astonishment. "What is it?" he said. "That ..." said Zaphod, "is the most improbable planet that ever existed." ================================================================= Chapter 15 (Excerpt from The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Page 634784, Section 5a, Entry: Magrathea) Far back in the mists of ancient time, in the great and glorious days of the former Galactic Empire, life was wild, rich and largely tax free. Mighty starships plied their way between exotic suns, seeking adventure and reward amongst the furthest reaches of Galactic space. In those days spirits were brave, the stakes were high, men were real men, women were real women, and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri. And all dared to brave unknown terrors, to do mighty deeds, to boldly split infinitives that no man had split before - and thus was the Empire forged. Many men of course became extremely rich, but this was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of because no one was really poor - at least no one worth speaking of. And for all the richest and most successful merchants life inevitably became rather dull and niggly, and they began to imagine that this was therefore the fault of the worlds they'd settled on - none of them was entirely satisfactory: either the climate wasn't quite right in the later part of the afternoon, or the day was half an hour too long, or the sea was exactly the wrong shade of pink. And thus were created the conditions for a staggering new form of specialist industry: custom-made luxury planet building. The home of this industry was the planet Magrathea, where hyperspatial engineers sucked matter through white holes in space to form it into dream planets - gold planets, platinum planets, soft rubber planets with lots of earthquakes - all lovingly made to meet the exacting standards that the Galaxy's richest men naturally came to expect. But so successful was this venture that Magrathea itself soon became the richest planet of all time and the rest of the Galaxy was reduced to abject poverty. And so the system broke down, the Empire collapsed, and a long sullen silence settled over a billion worlds, disturbed only by


"How is a planet to become an Eden without money?" "What is money," Kynes asked, "if it won't buy the services you need?" Ah, now! the Duke thought. And he said: "We'll discuss this another time. Right now, I believe we're coming to the edge of the Shield Wall. Do I hold the same course?" "The same course," Kynes muttered. Paul looked out his window. Beneath them, the broken ground began to drop away in tumbled creases toward a barren rock plain and a knife-edged shelf. Beyond the shelf, fingernail crescents of dunes marched toward the horizon with here and there in the distance a dull smudge, a darker blotch to tell of something not sand. Rock outcroppings, perhaps. In the heat-addled air, Paul couldn't be sure. "Are there any plants down there?" Paul asked. "Some," Kynes said. "This latitude's life-zone has mostly what we call minor water stealers--adapted to raiding each other for moisture, gobbling up the trace-dew. Some parts of the desert teem with life. But all of it has learned how to survive under these rigors. If you get caught down there, you imitate that life or you die." "You mean steal water from each other?" Paul asked. The idea outraged him, and his voice betrayed his emotion. "It's done," Kynes said, "but that wasn't precisely my meaning. You see, my climate demands a special attitude toward water. You are aware of water at all times. You waste nothing that contains moisture." And the Duke thought: " . . . my climate!" "Come around two degrees more southerly, my Lord," Kynes said. "There's a blow coming up from the west." The Duke nodded. He had seen the billowing of tan dust there. He banked the 'thopter around, noting the way the escort's wings reflected milky orange from the dust-refracted light as they turned to keep pace with him. "This should clear the storm's edge," Kynes said. "That sand must be dangerous if you fly into it," Paul said. "Will it really cut the strongest metals?" "At this altitude, it's not sand but dust," Kynes said. "The danger is lack of visibility, turbulence, clogged intakes." "We'll see actual spice mining today?" Paul asked. "Very likely," Kynes said. Paul sat back. He had used the questions and hyperawareness to do what his mother called "registering" the person. He had Kynes now--tune of voice, each detail of face and gesture. An unnatural folding of the left sleeve on the man's robe told of a knife in an arm sheath. The waist bulged strangely. It was said that desert men wore a belted sash into which they tucked small necessities. Perhaps the bulges came from such a sash--certainly not from a concealed shield belt. A copper pin engraved with the likeness of a hare clasped the neck of Kynes' robe. Another smaller pin with similar likeness hung at the corner of the hood which was thrown back over his shoulders. Halleck twisted in the seat beside Paul, reached back into the rear compartment and brought out his baliset. Kynes looked around as Halleck


placard at the de Young described Alice Lincoln as a “feminist icon and lesbian pioneer” and the basket as a “monument to matriarchy.” This would seem to make her the perfect donor for Tennessee Hollow, which had belonged to the family of Juana Briones, an entrepreneur and healer known as the “Mother of San Francisco.” “It’s not so easy to predict with her,” Maria said. “So far, she’s a pain. Totally controlling and totally indifferent. She’s some kind of Luddite hermit. She and I exchanged three letters to set a date for this meeting—and I mean letters on paper with stamps. Apparently she doesn’t have a cell or even internet. She called me from a pay phone in town this morning. And she made it very, very clear that she wants to remain anonymous, so I’m only telling you and the archaeology team.” “Is there anyone else we can ask if she says no?” “No one who could get us the money fast enough,” Maria said. She frowned. “If we don’t secure funding by next month, I’ll have to close the digs.” Maud hadn’t known that was a possibility. Maria was so savvy and forceful, she’d been sure she’d convince the Presidio Foundation to keep the project running until she found a donor. “I’ll start on a design tonight,” she said. Driving across the Golden Gate Bridge later, she mapped out the garden in her head. Thus far, she had found traces of tomatoes, pumpkins, blackberries, and yerba buena, a native mint Juana Briones used as a healer. And now she could add that pomegranate tree. Four months ago, she’d driven in the opposite direction for her first day on the job, nervous that she’d never find the garden she was meant to restore. She had spent hours in the Presidio archives, then at the Stanford library, where she read about an 1850s painting of Tennessee Hollow that now hung in San Francisco’s city hall. The faded canvas, which Maud found in a busy hallway above a drinking fountain, showed the flat, bare landscape of the Presidio before eucalyptus groves and lawns. She recognized the Briones house—a chalky square of adobe, and the well near El Polín. And downstream, standing on her tiptoes, craning her neck, she made out two faint brushstrokes in that same adobe white. Maybe an animal pen. Maybe a walled garden. For weeks, she paced the ground with the archaeology team, looking, measuring, digging test pits, hoping that they’d see the pale flash of adobe. And one afternoon, they did. But without funding, Maud thought, as she quit the freeway for Sausalito, the dream of the garden would go up in smoke. And I’ll be here again, she thought, cresting the hill that led to her house, back and forth to the grocery store and the dry cleaner’s, caught between the drumbeats of guilt and worry. The house that she and Peter rented stood up a zigzag staircase. On the redwood deck, a container garden of ferns and succulents shimmered with constellations of dew. The garden had been


to say you've heard of the terrible way he's handled things on Arrakis and you intend to take corrective measures as soon as you're able. I'll arrange to have some of your messages intercepted by Imperial spies." "But what of the spice, the revenues, the --" "Demand your baronial profits, but be careful how you make your demands. Require fixed sums of Rabban. We can --" The Baron turned his hands palms up. "But how can I be certain that my weasel nephew isn't --" "We still have our spies on Arrakis. Tell Rabban he either meets the spice quotas you set him or he'll be replaced." "I know my nephew," the Baron said. "This would only make him oppress the population even more." "Of course he will!" Hawat snapped. "You don't want that stopped now! You merely want your own hands clean. Let Rabban make your Salusa Secundus for you. There's no need even to send him any prisoners. He has all the population required. If Rabban is driving his people to meet your spice quotas, then the Emperor need suspect no other motive. That's reason enough for putting the planet on the rack. And you, Baron, will not show by word or action that there's any other reason for this." The Baron could not keep the sly tone of admiration out of his voice. "Ah, Hawat, you are a devious one. Now, how do we move into Arrakis and make use of what Rabban prepares?" "That's the simplest thing of all, Baron. If you set each year's quota a bit higher than the one before, matters will soon reach a head there. Production will drop off. You can remove Rabban and take over yourself . . . to correct the mess." "It fits," the Baron said. "But I can feel myself tiring of all this. I'm preparing another to take over Arrakis for me." Hawat studied the fat round face across from him. Slowly the old soldier-spy began to nod his head. "Feyd-Rautha," he said. "So that's the reason for the oppression now. You're very devious yourself, Baron. Perhaps we can incorporate these two schemes. Yes. Your Feyd-Rautha can go to Arrakis as their savior. He can win the populace. Yes." The Baron smiled. And behind his smile, he asked himself: Now, how does this fit in with Hawat's personal scheming? And Hawat, seeing that he was dismissed, arose and left the red-walled room. As he walked, he could not put down the disturbing unknowns that cropped into every computation about Arrakis. This new religious leader that Gurney Halleck hinted at from his hiding place among the smugglers, this Muad'Dib. Perhaps I should not have told the Baron to let this religion flourish where it will, even among the folk of pan and graben, he told himself. But it's well known that repression makes a religion flourish. And he thought about Halleck's reports on Fremen battle tactics. The tactics smacked of Halleck himself . . . and Idaho . . . and even of Hawat. Did Idaho survive? he asked


Emily Wildes Encyclopaedia of Faeries.txt

Krystjan—hearty dark bread, smoked fish, goose eggs, a variety of cheeses, and blueberries that had been canned fresh in syrup, which they had mixed into oatmeal and yogurt and piled with toasted sugar. It was a more elaborate breakfast than any we’d been served before, and even stranger, both Finn and Krystjan delivered it. Bambleby invited them jovially to dine with us, an overture that was immediately accepted. This suited me well, as I was able to eat in peace while Bambleby entertained himself with directing his charms at two willing recipients, both of whom were full of questions regarding our exploits. Lilja and Margret, I learned, had been safely delivered by Wendell to Lilja’s family home, and were both in good cheer; Lilja’s parents were beside themselves with relief and gratitude, while Lilja’s younger siblings were enthralled by the strange but lovely scar upon Margret’s forehead. I was more than content that Bambleby had absorbed the initial onslaught of praise, which no doubt factored into his present high spirits. He answered Finn and Krystjan’s questions elaborately, and somehow a wolf pack and a fearsome ice storm found their way into our journey to the Hidden Ones’ fair, as if the tale was in need of embellishment. The men hung on his every word, which I was used to, but there was something in the way they hesitated in their speech, as if every word directed at Bambleby needed to be carefully selected, and the way Finn cast nervous looks at Krystjan whenever his natural abrasiveness came through—that was entirely new. “They know about you,” I said bluntly after Finn and Krystjan finally departed. “The whole village?” He helped himself to more yogurt. “Lilja and Margret are clever girls, but even so, you would not need much cleverness to put two and two together after what they saw.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “It’s inconvenient. The villagers will see you as some sort of faerie godmother now. You get little work done already without them accosting you night and day for favours.” The smile slipped from his face. “Do you think they will?” “I have no idea. The Ljoslanders do not have the kindest associations with the courtly fae, so perhaps that will dim their expectations of you. Could you not have taken the girls’ memories?” He gazed at me in disbelief. “You wish that I had addled their minds, after what they went through? Oh, Em.” “Not entirely addled,” I said defensively. “But you could have taken the memory of what they saw in that valley.” “It doesn’t work that way.” “How does it work, then?” I leaned forward eagerly. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve never bothered mucking about in mortals’ minds.” I slumped back with a sigh. “You are no help whatsoever.” “I don’t wish to be of help.” Bambleby lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “I wish to finish off our paper and use it to dazzle the brilliant minds at ICODEF into a magnanimous stupor. Then I wish to take their money and use it


The songs, the processions, the banners, the hiking, the drilling with dummy rifles, the yelling of slogans, the worship of Big Brother--it was all a sort of glorious game to them. All their ferocity was turned outwards, against the enemies of the State, against foreigners, traitors, saboteurs, thought-criminals. It was almost normal for people over thirty to be frightened of their own children. And with good reason, for hardly a week passed in which 'The Times' did not carry a paragraph describing how some eavesdropping little sneak--'child hero' was the phrase generally used--had overheard some compromising remark and denounced its parents to the Thought Police. The sting of the catapult bullet had worn off. He picked up his pen half-heartedly, wondering whether he could find something more to write in the diary. Suddenly he began thinking of O'Brien again. Years ago--how long was it? Seven years it must be--he had dreamed that he was walking through a pitch-dark room. And someone sitting to one side of him had said as he passed: 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness.' It was said very quietly, almost casually--a statement, not a command. He had walked on without pausing. What was curious was that at the file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt (16 of 170) [1/17/03 5:04:51 AM] file:///F|/rah/George%20Orwell/Orwell%20Nineteen%20Eighty%20Four.txt time, in the dream, the words had not made much impression on him. It was only later and by degrees that they had seemed to take on significance. He could not now remember whether it was before or after having the dream that he had seen O'Brien for the first time, nor could he remember when he had first identified the voice as O'Brien's. But at any rate the identification existed. It was O'Brien who had spoken to him out of the dark. Winston had never been able to feel sure--even after this morning's flash of the eyes it was still impossible to be sure whether O'Brien was a friend or an enemy. Nor did it even seem to matter greatly. There was a link of understanding between them, more important than affection or partisanship. 'We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness,' he had said. Winston did not know what it meant, only that in some way or another it would come true. The voice from the telescreen paused. A trumpet call, clear and beautiful, floated into the stagnant air. The voice continued raspingly: 'Attention! Your attention, please! A newsflash has this moment arrived from the Malabar front. Our forces in South India have won a glorious victory. I am authorized to say that the action we are now reporting may well bring the war within measurable distance of its end. Here is the newsflash----' Bad news coming, thought Winston. And sure enough, following on a gory description of the annihilation of a Eurasian army, with stupendous figures of killed and prisoners, came the announcement that, as from next week, the chocolate ration would be reduced from thirty grammes to twenty. Winston belched again. The gin was wearing off, leaving a deflated feeling.


from Perrault, the resounding impact of a club upon a bony frame, and a shrill yelp of pain, heralded the breaking forth of pandemonium. The camp was suddenly discovered to be alive with skulking furry forms,--starving huskies, four or five score of them, who had scented the camp from some Indian village. They had crept in while Buck and Spitz were fighting, and when the two men sprang among them with stout clubs they showed their teeth and fought back. They were crazed by the smell of the food. Perrault found one with head buried in the grub-box. His club landed heavily on the gaunt ribs, and the grub-box was capsized on the ground. On the instant a score of the famished brutes were scrambling for the bread and bacon. The clubs fell upon them unheeded. They yelped and howled under the rain of blows, but struggled none the less madly till the last crumb had been devoured. In the meantime the astonished team-dogs had burst out of their nests only to be set upon by the fierce invaders. Never had Buck seen such dogs. it seemed as though their bones would burst through their skins. They were mere skeletons, draped loosely in draggled hides, with blazing eyes and slavered fangs. But the hunger-madness made them terrifying, irresistible. There was no opposing them. The team-dogs were swept back against the cliff at the first onset. Buck was beset by three huskies, and in a trice his head and shoulders were ripped and slashed. The din was frightful. Billee was crying as usual. Dave and Sol-leks, dripping blood from a score of wounds, were fighting bravely side by side. Joe was snapping like a demon. Once, his teeth closed on the fore leg of a husky, and he crunched down through the bone. Pike, the malingerer, leaped upon the crippled animal, breaking its neck with a quick flash of teeth and a jerk, Buck got a frothing adversary by the throat, and was sprayed with blood when his teeth sank through the jugular. The warm taste of it in his mouth goaded him to greater fierceness. He flung himself upon another, and at the same time felt teeth sink into his own throat. It was Spitz, treacherously attacking from the side. Perrault and Francois, having cleaned out their part of the camp, hurried to save their sled-dogs. The wild wave of famished beasts rolled back before them, and Buck shook himself free. But it was only for a moment. The two men were compelled to run back to save the grub, upon which the huskies returned to the attack on the team. Billee, terrified into bravery, sprang through the savage circle and fled away over the ice. Pike and Dub followed on his heels, with the rest of the team behind. As Buck drew himself together to spring after them, out of the tail of his eye he saw Spitz rush upon him with the evident intention of overthrowing him. Once off his feet and under that mass of huskies, there was no


you and what's your name?" she demanded. "Anne Shirley," faltered the shrinking child, not daring to make any stipulations regarding the spelling thereof, "and I'm eleven years old." "Humph! You don't look as if there was much to you. But you're wiry. I don't know but the wiry ones are the best after all. Well, if I take you you'll have to be a good girl, you know-good and smart and respectful. I'll expect you to earn your keep, and no mistake about that. Yes, I suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss Cuthbert. The baby's awful fractious, and I'm clean worn out attending to him. If you like I can take her right home now." Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the child's pale face with its look of mute misery-the misery of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more caught in the trap from which it had escaped. Marilla felt an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. Moreover, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive, "highstrung" child over to such a woman! No, she could not take the responsibility of doing that! "Well, I don't know," she said slowly. "I didn't say that Matthew and I had absolutely decided that we wouldn't keep her. In fact I may say that Matthew is disposed to keep her. I just came over to find out how the mistake had occurred. I think I'd better take her home again and talk it over with Matthew. I feel that I oughtn't to decide on anything without consulting him. If we make up our mind not to keep her we'll bring or send her over to you tomorrow night. If we don't you may know that she is going to stay with us. Will that suit you, Mrs. Blewett?" "I suppose it'll have to," said Mrs. Blewett ungraciously. During Marilla's speech a sunrise had been dawning on Anne's face. First the look of despair faded out; then came a faint flush of hope; here eyes grew deep and bright as morning stars. The child was quite transfigured; and, a moment later, when Mrs. Spencer and Mrs. Blewett went out in quest of a recipe the latter had come to borrow she sprang up and flew across the room to Marilla. "Oh, Miss Cuthbert, did you really say that perhaps you would let me stay at Green Gables?" she said, in a breathless whisper, as if speaking aloud might shatter the glorious possibility. "Did you really say it? Or did I only imagine that you did?" "I think you'd better learn to control that imagination of yours, Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isn't," said Marilla crossly. "Yes, you did hear me say just that and no more. It isn't decided yet and perhaps we ill conclude to let Mrs. Blewett take you after all. She certainly needs you much more than I do." "I'd rather


Bubble and made rainbows in the water with little twigs dipped in fir balsam. "Everything is ready, Diana, except my cake which I'm to make in the morning, and the baking-powder biscuits which Marilla will make just before teatime. I assure you, Diana, that Marilla and I have had a busy two days of it. It's such a responsibility having a minister's family to tea. I never went through such an experience before. You should just see our pantry. It's a sight to behold. We're going to have jellied chicken and cold tongue. We're to have two kinds of jelly, red and yellow, and whipped cream and lemon pie, and cherry pie, and three kinds of cookies, and fruit cake, and Marilla's famous yellow plum preserves that she keeps especially for ministers, and pound cake and layer cake, and biscuits as aforesaid; and new bread and old both, in case the minister is dyspeptic and can't eat new. Mrs. Lynde says minister are dyspeptic, but I don't think Mr. Allan has been a minister long enough for it to have had a bad effect on him. I just grow cold when I think of my layer cake. Oh, Diana, what if it shouldn't be good! I dreamed last night that I was chased all around by a fearful goblin with a big layer cake for a head." "It'll be good, all right," assured Diana, who was a very comfortable sort of friend. "I'm sure that piece of the one you made that we had for lunch in Idlewild two weeks ago was perfectly elegant." "Yes; but cakes have such a terrible habit of turning out bad just when you especially want them to be good," sighed Anne, setting a particularly well-balsamed twig afloat. "However, I suppose I shall just have to trust to Providence and be careful to put in the flour. Oh, look, Diana, what a lovely rainbow! Do you suppose the dryad will come out after we go away and take it for a scarf?" "You know there is no such thing as a dryad," said Diana. Diana's mother had found out about the Haunted Wood and had been decidedly angry over it. As a result Diana had abstained from any further imitative flights of imagination and did not think it prudent to cultivate a spirit of belief even in harmless dryads. "But it's so easy to imagine there is," said Anne. "Every night before I go to bed, I look out of my window and wonder if the dryad is really sitting here, combing her locks with the spring for a mirror. Sometimes I look for her footprints in the dew in the morning. Oh, Diana, don't give up your faith in the dryad!" Wednesday morning came. Anne got up at sunrise because she was too excited to sleep. She had caught a severe cold in the head by reason of her dabbling in the spring on the preceding evening; but nothing short of absolute pneumonia could have quenched her interest in culinary matters that morning. After breakfast she


this continent that had made his diaries essential reading. It wasn’t clear from the museum exhibit why Doug hadn’t been brought back to Antarctica during the Exodus, since his eight years on the ice and expert knowledge would have made him eligible for selection. But the truth was unsuitable for a museum intended to inspire McMurdo’s inhabitants. Doug Reynolds had been asked to return, he’d been offered a spot on an American military transport plane, and he’d said no. He’d found love, he was married, and he’d explained to his wife what life would be like in Antarctica, how unforgiving the continent was to human frailties – physical and psychological. In their late sixties, they’d felt blessed, so instead of returning to McMurdo he’d handed over his diaries to the military officials arranging the evacuation of the United States, wishing them the best of luck. On the last day before the deadline, Doug and his wife had sat together in the September summer warmth of Palisade Park, Santa Monica, watching their final sunset, along with the many millions of other Californians who’d decided against attempting the journey, some accepting their fate, others believing it to be a hoax. As the sun went down behind the Malibu hills, the deadline passed and a second later the swathes of people crowding the beach, standing shoulder to shoulder in the shallow water, perched on the roof of the lifeguard huts, filling the eight-lane freeway and the amusement pier, all these people had broken apart into fragments of light. For a moment it was as if the whole sky was full of campfire embers that swirled among seagulls distressed at the commotion but otherwise unharmed. And then the beaches were empty, the parks were empty, the freeway and pier were empty, the seagulls were calm again and the only people left alive on the planet were those who’d reached Antarctica. Since there were no prisons in McMurdo City, Yotam was being held inside the museum, locked inside the exhibition hall, sleeping under the case containing the diaries with only the company of his dog Copper. He’d been confined to this space while the Senate decided how to handle his case. If he was honest, maybe he’d deliberately provoked this reaction, forcing the issue, unable to keep Eitan trapped under the ice any longer. The Senate had been prevaricating, always demanding more evidence that these radically advanced Cold People were safe. Their safety could never be proved unless they were released. The door opened and the guard entered, with a set of fresh clothes. ‘They’re ready for you.’ The trial of Yotam Penzak was about to begin. MCMURDO CITY MCMURDO SENATE BUILDING CHAPEL OF THE SNOWS SAME DAY THE TRIAL OF YOTAM PENZAK was the first trial in McMurdo City’s twenty-year history. During the creation of this new society, the decision had been taken not to replicate the justice systems of the old world. There weren’t the resources to build courtrooms and prison cells, nor could they afford for a large portion of the workforce to be


charge of Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Churchill. And Mr. Weston tried, in vain, to make them harmonise better. It seemed at first an accidental division, but it never materially varied. Mr. and Mrs. Elton, indeed, shewed no unwillingness to mix, and be as agreeable as they could; but during the two whole hours that were spent on the hill, there seemed a principle of separation, between the other parties, too strong for any fine prospects, or any cold collation, or any cheerful Mr. Weston, to remove. At first it was downright dulness to Emma. She had never seen Frank Churchill so silent and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing-- looked without seeing--admired without intelligence--listened without knowing what she said. While he was so dull, it was no wonder that Harriet should be dull likewise; and they were both insufferable. When they all sat down it was better; to her taste a great deal better, for Frank Churchill grew talkative and gay, making her his first object. Every distinguishing attention that could be paid, was paid to her. To amuse her, and be agreeable in her eyes, seemed all that he cared for--and Emma, glad to be enlivened, not sorry to be flattered, was gay and easy too, and gave him all the friendly encouragement, the admission to be gallant, which she had ever given in the first and most animating period of their acquaintance; but which now, in her own estimation, meant nothing, though in the judgment of most people looking on it must have had such an appearance as no English word but flirtation could very well describe. "Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse flirted together excessively." They were laying themselves open to that very phrase--and to having it sent off in a letter to Maple Grove by one lady, to Ireland by another. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless from any real felicity; it was rather because she felt less happy than she had expected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and though she liked him for his attentions, and thought them all, whether in friendship, admiration, or playfulness, extremely judicious, they were not winning back her heart. She still intended him for her friend. "How much I am obliged to you," said he, "for telling me to come to-day!-- If it had not been for you, I should certainly have lost all the happiness of this party. I had quite determined to go away again." "Yes, you were very cross; and I do not know what about, except that you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a kinder friend than you deserved. But you were humble. You begged hard to be commanded to come." "Don't say I was cross. I was fatigued. The heat overcame me." "It is hotter to-day." "Not to my feelings. I am perfectly comfortable to-day." "You are comfortable because you are under command." "Your command?--Yes." "Perhaps I intended you to say so, but I meant self-command. You had, somehow or other, broken bounds yesterday,


disapproved of Mother. They were a family who formed strategic alliances with greengrocers and pawnbrokers and ironmongers. They didn’t marry loose-screwed, weak-brained girls—and that’s how they would have seen Mother. Even Mrs. Bone never hinted, never suggested for a second that Danny had made a true marriage. She would have torn him down from his glorious perch in a heartbeat, if she had. Lucky for Danny O’Flynn. So easy to vanish, remold himself just the way he pleased. Mrs. King pictured him assessing his options, shuffling them idly like a deck of cards. She wished she didn’t recognize the trait. Two days later, she heard his bell ringing. A summons for Madam. The master wanted to speak to his daughter. Whatever passed between them Mrs. King never knew. Miss de Vries came downstairs, went to her own rooms, without saying a word to anyone. She didn’t send for any supper; she gave no orders at all. Mrs. King sat in her own small sitting room, waiting. She could feel something coiled in the house, a storm about to break. Their father died that night. A sudden deterioration, entirely expected in a consumptive case like this one, said the physician later. The news broke like a river forcing its way through a dam. Mrs. King felt it rolling downstairs, floor by floor, the electroliers seething and spitting, the servants turning pale as they received the intelligence. The dinner service was suspended, the under-footmen stood about with their mouths open. Cook took to her bed. You could even hear the horses growing agitated in the yard. Mr. Lockwood and the other lawyers descended upon the house, papers out, pens aloft, issuing memoranda. The nurse cleared away all the pillboxes and bowls and towels, her trolley rattling all the way down the passage of the bedroom floor. Everyone heard Mr. Shepherd moaning, keening, from the butler’s pantry. Miss de Vries remained in her room. Mrs. King counted out the black armbands, one by one. This is it, she thought, blood thrumming. Truthfully, she didn’t know what it was. It felt too enormous, too unimaginable to piece together. Possession of this house, of all it contained, whistled through her mind. The wording in the will was precise. It caused no comment. “I leave everything, my whole estate, to my true and legitimate daughter.” Clever, thought Mrs. King, when she heard, anger rushing through her veins. Clever, clever, a lovely trick, a lovely game. Of course the lawyers didn’t remark upon such straightforward phraseology. Madam didn’t question it; nobody said a word at all. They felt they understood the natural order of things. It was up to Mrs. King to correct them. She gave herself an order. Strip the house. Take every box, every drawer: shake them, search them, root it out. Find that letter. Once Alice was in post, once Winnie was in on the job, she went to the men’s quarters. She’d only have one chance to investigate those. It was the worst place for a woman to enter, if she wanted to keep her


line. She couldn’t have done both at once, was the problem. The damage to her carotid artery suggested choking; and the injuries to the right side of her face, in addition to the damage to her brain stem and the back of her skull, were inconsistent with a single fall onto the pool deck or a lane line. Plus there had been no sign of impact at the pool edge. My only experience in the pool as a student was the swim tests we had to pass before each fall and spring crew season. The first time, I’d barely gotten to know my teammates over a few days of erg training. It was a particular humiliation to stand there with my chubby, pale legs, the borrowed Granby swimsuit noosing my thighs. Thalia wore one of those same green school-issued suits when she drowned, suggesting she’d either found it at the pool or borrowed it from someone on the team. It was size Large, and Thalia was a small person. No swim cap, no goggles. Trace DNA from Omar Evans was found inside the suit crotch—one of the main pieces of evidence against him. Although: One of the articles Fran sent me the next year had mentioned the instability of DNA in water. While water couldn’t put Omar’s DNA there, it could have washed someone else’s away. Then there was the piece of his hair in her mouth. Well, there were actually two hairs in her mouth. A two-millimeter piece consistent with Omar’s DNA, and a three-centimeter strand from someone else, someone unidentified. A swimmer, the police had posited, another student who’d recently used the pool. I imagined what Britt would argue: Either hair might have been in the water already, inhaled as Thalia drowned. I was out of breath. I didn’t swim often, and although my limbs were in shape, my lungs were not. I draped my arms over the lane line, hung there by the armpits. How many pieces of lint, fiber, hair speckled the pool’s surface? If I lowered my sight line exactly so, the water seemed covered in dust. Those Reddit detectives would have had a field day in here. They’d have whipped out their measuring tapes, their calculators. For years, I’d assumed Thalia was found in the deep end (isn’t that where one drowns?), but then I learned from Dateline that it was the shallow end, her hair so tangled around the lane line that a Campus Security officer, called by the teacher who discovered Thalia, had to jump in the pool and cut her free while the EMTs were on their way. I’d also assumed she was floating, but when my son was in his gory-and-disturbing-facts phase I learned that bodies don’t float for a few days. If Thalia’s head was near the surface, it was only because she was held there from above, her hair turned to puppet strings. It wasn’t obvious that the cause of death was drowning. There was water in her lungs, but all that meant was either she took several breaths in


A DETECTIVE to put the puzzle together. Jesse—Carter—hired Benjamin Laval to represent him after the breaking and entering. During that time, Jesse must have met Hazel. There had been a spark between them—two gorgeous but damaged people, a forbidden attraction. Benjamin convinced Jesse to turn against his brother in exchange for a shortened sentence. When Jesse got out, he and Hazel began their affair in earnest. But Benjamin Laval discovered it, and he—or one of his henchmen—stabbed Jesse to death. Now I wonder if Benjamin was the horrible abusive husband Hazel had made him out to be. Or had she concocted the whole story so that I’d help her run away with her lover? Could Hazel have lied so convincingly? I had seen the damage: the bruises on her back, the black eye. It could have been faked, but it had felt so real. It still felt real. My role in the scenario is murky. Why did Jesse find me and seduce me? What purpose did that serve? He had made love to me—sometimes gently, sometimes so passionately it bordered on rough. Why would he do that if he was in love with Hazel, planning a life with her? And if Hazel was on her way to the airport, why had Jesse gone into her house? These are questions I will never have answered. Because I am going to get on a plane, today, and I am going to start my life over. I have wasted too much time, taken too many chances. I need to take the money and ID Hazel left for me, and get the hell out of Dodge. There is only one thing I must do first. Traffic is already thickening, though I’m still ten miles from downtown Seattle. I will bypass the city, head straight to Sea-Tac. When I am close, I will ditch my car, collect what belongings I can, and take a cab to the airport. I’ll get on the first flight to Dallas, transfer there for my South American leg. And no one will ever hear from me again. There is a weigh station for transport trucks, and I pull into it, stopping my car some distance from the big rig occupying the scale. My hands tremble as I grab my phone, dial the only number I know from memory. The Sumner brothers—their crimes, trials, and betrayals—have put my relationship with my sister in perspective. What I did to her is not unforgivable. Not comparatively, anyway. She answers on the third ring, her voice cool and suspicious. She doesn’t recognize the number of this street phone, of course. She probably thinks it’s a spam call, or a telemarketer. My voice is hoarse, barely recognizable, when I say her name. “Teresa…” There is a long silence and I expect her to hang up, but she speaks. “Where are you?” “I’m leaving the country,” I tell her. “But I couldn’t go without talking to you first.” Her response is frosty. “About what, Lee?” “About what I did.” The lump in my throat makes it hard to


short, shiny twists are jumping, and his grin is wide and carefree the way only a truly terrible person’s can be. Minnie leans in as we walk by. “Do you think Brad’s applying to Cambridge?” “Of course he is,” I mutter. When does he ever miss a chance to show off? “So, you might see him at interviews and stuff. Right?” Ugh. God forbid. “I don’t care, stop looking at him.” She arches an eyebrow. “You started it.” Yeah, well. Who can avoid looking at Bradley? His sheer annoyingness creates its own gravitational pull. His fan club—consisting of 70 percent boys’ football team and 30 percent girls whose parents pay for their mammoth Depop wardrobes, which equals 100 percent skinny, glowing people who practice TikTok dances unironically and spend their weekends being bland and hooking up at house parties—is absolutely entranced by his tomfoolery like they’ve never seen a ball before. Except for Jordan Cooper, who rolls his eyes, snatches the ball out of the air, and says in his flat American accent, “Cut it out, or Mr. Darling will rip you a new one.” (Mr. Darling is our head of year, a tightly wound geography teacher who hands out detentions like he gets paid by the hour.) Bradley just laughs as if he fears nothing in the world—which is an absolute lie. But then, I’ve always believed he is fake and false and entirely made of earth-destroying plastic, so…that tracks. I’m in the process of looking away with withering disdain when he—inconvenient down to his very soul—glances up and catches my eye. Great. I give him my filthiest look, but his grin doesn’t falter. In fact, it gets wider. He raises his eyebrows, and I can practically read his thoughts: Watching me again, Bangura? I glare. You wish. His smile turns into a smirk. Ugh. BRAD September’s supposed to be fresh and crisp like the empty pages of my brand-new notebook, but so far, it’s murky and hot as balls. When Max Donovan drags the gang up to the field at lunch and asks, “Five-a-side?” I look at him like he’s off his nut. What, does he want me to sweat through my first-day-of-school outfit? “No thanks,” Jordan says while I’m still contemplating the horrors of unplanned exercise. He doesn’t mind sweating out of uniform; he just has this thing about treating his Yeezys right. Donno rolls his eyes and chucks the ball my way. “Bradders. You in?” I’m not, but I can’t resist the urge to keep it off the ground. A quick tap with my right foot, my left, then my knee, then my chest. “No thanks,” I say, and do it again. “Show-off,” Jordan murmurs. I stick my tongue out at him and kick the ball back to Donno, who snorts derisively. “Christ, you’re a pair of wet wipes.” He’s our team captain, in possession of a killer left foot, floppy golden hair, and sparkling blue eyes. His smiles are always wide and mocking, barely hiding his fangs. I used to have the most unholy crush on him.


for much less than she’d expected to make. On Saturday morning, Bùsọ́lá woke everyone up as she stacked the plates and pots she had refused to wash the previous night, slamming the items on top of each other so the noise she made became louder each time she moved an item. Ẹniọlá sat up on his mattress as she began throwing spoons into a pot. On the bed, their parents yawned and turned, clinging to sleep until Bùsọ́lá dropped a frying pan. As Bùsọ́lá picked up the frying pan and threw it back into the cupboard that held kitchen utensils, Ẹniọlá wondered why she had brought it out in the first place. The thing was not even dirty. No one had fried anything in months. When their parents sat up in bed, Bùsọ́lá knelt to greet them, but before they could even respond, she began complaining about the school fees. “Bùsọ́lá.” Their mother swung her legs off the bed. “The sun is not even up yet, let the day dawn before we start talking about all of this this morning.” Bùsọ́lá pointed at the window. “It’s dawning already, the day is dawning. Is it not me they will flog in school on Monday? I will not take it o, I can’t take another week of flogging. If you’re not going to pay, let me just stay at home as from Monday. They will kúkú start sending me back home the Monday after this one if you have not paid yet, let me just be staying at home.” “Not in this house. If you’ve started paying rent elsewhere, you can go and stay there, but you are not staying in this house. We are trying, Bùsọ́lá, we are trying.” “How much do you have now? Can you pay half?” “Why are you looking for trouble this morning? I’ve told you we are looking for this money. You were in this house when I came back from the market yesterday, you were here when your father went—” “Why won’t you say how much you have, ehn? Why? Just say how much you have and—” “You still have one week of school before we have to pay, why can’t you be patient?” “But it’s not you they are beating, it’s not you.” Bùsọ́lá’s voice was rising. She was almost shouting at their mother. Their mother, whose voice shook and got smaller as she spoke, chin sinking into her chest. Ẹniọlá caught his sister’s eye, frowned at her and shook his head. She should know better than this by now. What was all this shouting going to achieve? “Why are you like this? Are they not beating your brother too, Bùsọ́lá? Have you seen Ẹniọlá talk to me or your father like this? Why are you behaving as if it’s more than this?” “Because of you my back is swelling everywhere. Every day, beating. The people in my class will be laughing at me. You’re the one that caused all of these things.” Bùsọ́lá pointed at their parents as she spoke, stabbing her forefingers in their


I tell you then, Pip?" "You told me, Mr. Jaggers, that it might be years hence when that person appeared." "Just so," said Mr. Jaggers; "that's my answer." As we looked full at one another, I felt my breath come quicker in my strong desire to get something out of him. And as I felt that it came quicker, and as I felt that he saw that it came quicker, I felt that I had less chance than ever of getting anything out of him. "Do you suppose it will still be years hence, Mr. Jaggers?" Mr. Jaggers shook his head - not in negativing the question, but in altogether negativing the notion that he could anyhow be got to answer it - and the two horrible casts of the twitched faces looked, when my eyes strayed up to them, as if they had come to a crisis in their suspended attention, and were going to sneeze. "Come!" said Mr. Jaggers, warming the backs of his legs with the backs of his warmed hands, "I'll be plain with you, my friend Pip. That's a question I must not be asked. You'll understand that, better, when I tell you it's a question that might compromise me. Come! I'll go a little further with you; I'll say something more." He bent down so low to frown at his boots, that he was able to rub the calves of his legs in the pause he made. "When that person discloses," said Mr. Jaggers, straightening himself, "you and that person will settle your own affairs. When that person discloses, my part in this business will cease and determine. When that person discloses, it will not be necessary for me to know anything about it. And that's all I have got to say." We looked at one another until I withdrew my eyes, and looked thoughtfully at the floor. From this last speech I derived the notion that Miss Havisham, for some reason or no reason, had not taken him into her confidence as to her designing me for Estella; that he resented this, and felt a jealousy about it; or that he really did object to that scheme, and would have nothing to do with it. When I raised my eyes again, I found that he had been shrewdly looking at me all the time, and was doing so still. "If that is all you have to say, sir," I remarked, "there can be nothing left for me to say." He nodded assent, and pulled out his thief-dreaded watch, and asked me where I was going to dine? I replied at my own chambers, with Herbert. As a necessary sequence, I asked him if he would favour us with his company, and he promptly accepted the invitation. But he insisted on walking home with me, in order that I might make no extra preparation for him, and first he had a letter or two to write, and (of course) had his hands to wash. So, I said I would go into the outer office and talk


most of the time, or the musical wall lit and all the coloured patterns running up and down, but it's only colour and all abstract. And at the museums, have you ever been? All abstract. That's all there is now. My uncle says it was different once. A long time back sometimes pictures said things or even showed people." "Your uncle said, your uncle said. Your uncle must be a remarkable man." "He is. He certainly is. Well, I've got to be going. Goodbye, Mr. Montag." "Good-bye." "Good-bye...." One two three four five six seven days: the firehouse. "Montag, you shin that pole like a bird up a tree." Third day. "Montag, I see you came in the back door this time. The Hound bother you?" "No, no." Fourth day. "Montag, a funny thing. Heard tell this morning. Fireman in Seattle, purposely set a Mechanical Hound to his own chemical complex and let it loose. What kind of suicide would you call that?" Five six seven days. And then, Clarisse was gone. He didn't know what there was about the afternoon, but it was not seeing her somewhere in the world. The lawn was empty, the trees empty, the street empty, and while at first he did not even know he missed her or was even looking for her, the fact was that by the time he reached the subway, there were vague stirrings of un-ease in him. Something was the matter, his routine had been disturbed. A simple routine, true, established in a short few days, and yet . . . ? He almost turned back to make the walk again, to give her time to appear. He was certain if he tried the same route, everything would work out fine. But it was late, and the arrival of his train put a stop to his plan. The flutter of cards, motion of hands, of eyelids, the drone of the time-voice in the firehouse ceiling ". . . one thirty-five. Thursday morning, November 4th,... one thirty-six . . . one thirty-seven a.m... " The tick of the playing-cards on the greasy table-top, all the sounds came to Montag, behind his closed eyes, behind the barrier he had momentarily erected. He could feel the firehouse full of glitter and shine and silence, of brass colours, the colours of coins, of gold, of silver: The unseen men across the table were sighing on their cards, waiting. ". . .one forty-five..." The voice-clock mourned out the cold hour of a cold morning of a still colder year. "What's wrong, Montag?" Montag opened his eyes. A radio hummed somewhere. ". . . war may be declared any hour. This country stands ready to defend its--" The firehouse trembled as a great flight of jet planes whistled a single note across the black morning sky. Montag blinked. Beatty was looking at him as if he were a museum statue. At any moment, Beatty might rise and walk about him, touching, exploring his guilt and self-consciousness. Guilt? What guilt was that? "Your play, Montag." Montag looked at


years old when Nick hit his growth spurt and nobody—at home or at school—wanted to smack him around anymore. Nick hates to think of Sal—fat-cheeked baby Sal—remembering that. “I’m glad, kid. I just needed to make sure, you know? I’m not trying to turn you against your father.” Nick’s glad Michael has his act together. “But who messed your face up?” “Assholes at the bus stop.” “And so you came here after?” Sal scowls. “The other day, Dad said that if those kids went after me again, he was showing up at their houses in a patrol car. So I couldn’t go to school after that, obviously.” Nick almost laughs, because as far as he can tell this is Michael being something like a decent parent. Something in that ballpark, at least. Go fucking figure. “I guess cops are good for something,” he says, and Sal snorts. Sometimes, when Nick is feeling charitable, he remembers that Michael came home from war to four people who depended on him. He had been twenty-two and had spent his entire adult life in the Pacific Theater. The fact that he came home and took some of his anger out on his kid brother was—it wasn’t okay, it might not even be forgivable, but Nick could hope that maybe the person Michael had been in 1945 wasn’t around anymore. When he’s feeling less charitable, Nick is pretty sure that now his brother just smacks people around at work. Cops have all kinds of ways to vent their anger. “Sometimes he calls me names,” Sal says, “but nothing like what he called you.” A familiar swirl of panic begins to take root in Nick’s gut, the feeling of having been caught, of having been seen for what he is. He can’t fill his lungs with air. Nick is twenty-six. There’s no reason in the world why he should be so fucking rattled by memories of being smacked around and called names over ten years ago. Since the night of his arrest, Nick’s been telling himself that he shouldn’t hold a grudge anymore. The slate is clean between them. Michael’s an asshole, sure; but then, Michael saved Nick’s future and never so much as mentioned it to Nick or anyone else. That was decent, right? Except he does sort of mention it. Every time Nick sees his brother, there are sly comments and insinuations. As far as Nick knows, Michael’s never told anyone else about Nick’s arrest, but those comments make it so the arrest is hanging over Nick’s head anyway. And it’s not as if what Michael did for him actually erased the smacking around. So now Nick can’t speak, because all he’s thinking about is his brother hitting him a dozen years ago and his brother—maybe—tacitly threatening to tell their mother, maybe even threatening to do worse. He thinks again of that envelope of photos, and how easy it would be for someone on the force to unravel Nick’s life. “Uncle Nick?” “People shouldn’t call you names,” Nick says uselessly. Sal snorts and looks at him


nights in plotting revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do the master a mischief. But he kept ahead all the time. The retribution that followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys always retired from the field badly worsted. At last they conspired together --------------------------------------------------------- -203- and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory. They swore in the sign-painter's boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had his own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded in his father's family and had given the boy ample cause to hate him. The master's wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always prepared himself for great occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the sign-painter's boy said that when the dominie had reached the proper condition on Examination Evening he would "manage the thing" while he napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried away to school. In the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight in the evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned in his great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him. He was looking tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and six rows in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town and by the parents of the pupils. To his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the scholars who were to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys; snowbanks of --------------------------------------------------------- -204- girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their grandmothers' ancient trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the flowers in their hair. All the rest of the house was filled with non-participating scholars. The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited, "You'd scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the stage," etc. -- accompanying himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic gestures which a machine might have used -- supposing the machine to be a trifle out of order. But he got through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and retired. A little shamefaced girl lisped, "Mary had a little lamb," etc., performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and sat down flushed and happy. Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into the unquenchable and indestructible "Give me liberty or give me death" speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under him and he was like


to sleep when you ain't sleepy -- if you are anywheres where it won't do for you to scratch, why you will itch all over in upwards of a thousand places. Pretty soon Jim says: "Say, who is you? Whar is you? Dog my cats ef I didn' hear sumf'n. Well, I know what I's gwyne to do: I's gwyne to set down here and listen tell I hears it agin." So he set down on the ground betwixt me and Tom. He leaned his back up against a tree, and stretched his legs out till one of them most touched one of mine. My nose begun to itch. It itched till the tears come into my eyes. But I dasn't scratch. Then it begun to itch on the inside. Next I got to itching under- neath. I didn't know how I was going to set still. This miserableness went on as much as six or seven minutes; but it seemed a sight longer than that. I was itching in eleven different places now. I reckoned I couldn't stand it more'n a minute longer, but I set my teeth hard and got ready to try. Just then Jim begun to breathe heavy; next he begun to snore -- and then I was pretty soon comfortable again. Tom he made a sign to me -- kind of a little noise with his mouth -- and we went creeping away on our hands and knees. When we was ten foot off Tom whispered to me, and wanted to tie Jim to the tree for fun. But I said no; he might wake and make a dis- turbance, and then they'd find out I warn't in. Then Tom said he hadn't got candles enough, and he would slip in the kitchen and get some more. I didn't want him to try. I said Jim might wake up and come. But Tom wanted to resk it; so we slid in there and got three candles, and Tom laid five cents on the table for pay. Then we got out, and I was in a sweat to get away; but nothing would do Tom but he must crawl to where Jim was, on his hands and knees, and play something on him. I waited, and it seemed a good while, everything was so still and lonesome. As soon as Tom was back we cut along the path, around the garden fence, and by and by fetched up on the steep top of the hill the other side of the house. Tom said he slipped Jim's hat off of his head and hung it on a limb right over him, and Jim stirred a little, but he didn't wake. Afterwards Jim said the witches be- witched him and put him in a trance, and rode him all over the State, and then set him under the trees again, and hung his hat on a limb to show who done it. And next time Jim told it he said they rode him down to New Orleans; and, after that,


took his tangle of tobacco from his pocket, and plucked his pipe from his button-hole, and slowly filled it, and began to smoke. "Is he dead?" I asked, after a silence. "Is who dead, dear boy?" "Compeyson." "He hopes I am, if he's alive, you may be sure," with a fierce look. "I never heerd no more of him." Herbert had been writing with his pencil in the cover of a book. He softly pushed the book over to me, as Provis stood smoking with his eyes on the fire, and I read in it: "Young Havisham's name was Arthur. Compeyson is the man who professed to be Miss Havisham's lover." I shut the book and nodded slightly to Herbert, and put the book by; but we neither of us said anything, and both looked at Provis as he stood smoking by the fire. Chapter 43 Why should I pause to ask how much of my shrinking from Provis might be traced to Estella? Why should I loiter on my road, to compare the state of mind in which I had tried to rid myself of the stain of the prison before meeting her at the coach-office, with the state of mind in which I now reflected on the abyss between Estella in her pride and beauty, and the returned transport whom I harboured? The road would be none the smoother for it, the end would be none the better for it, he would not be helped, nor I extenuated. A new fear had been engendered in my mind by his narrative; or rather, his narrative had given form and purpose to the fear that was already there. If Compeyson were alive and should discover his return, I could hardly doubt the consequence. That, Compeyson stood in mortal fear of him, neither of the two could know much better than I; and that, any such man as that man had been described to be, would hesitate to release himself for good from a dreaded enemy by the safe means of becoming an informer, was scarcely to be imagined. Never had I breathed, and never would I breathe - or so I resolved - a word of Estella to Provis. But, I said to Herbert that before I could go abroad, I must see both Estella and Miss Havisham. This was when we were left alone on the night of the day when Provis told us his story. I resolved to go out to Richmond next day, and I went. On my presenting myself at Mrs. Brandley's, Estella's maid was called to tell that Estella had gone into the country. Where? To Satis House, as usual. Not as usual, I said, for she had never yet gone there without me; when was she coming back? There was an air of reservation in the answer which increased my perplexity, and the answer was, that her maid believed she was only coming back at all for a little while. I could make nothing of this, except that it was meant that I should make nothing


everyone?” No one answered him. Hardy slowed, taking notice of new signs of struggle: dried blood streaks on a bulkhead, weapons damage to the corridor, and other marks he’d yet to decipher. They turned a corner, seeing more blood, a lot more blood, and indications of far more weapons fire. Charred plasma craters pocked virtually every surface. Max said, “Looks like the alien fuckers came through here like a meatgrinder … Ship’s crew fought hard.” They followed the increasing signs of carnage, eventually coming up to one of the ship’s main lower deck holds, some twenty meters up ahead. The entrance hatch doors, extra wide to enable the movement of cargo, had been left open. Max signaled for his crew to take up a stacked line formation. Hardy checked his readings. Although there were signs of “life,” motion sensors detected very little movement. He looked to Max. “No time like the present; it’s time to party, boys.” Hardy breached the compartment at a full run, ready to confront whatever hostiles were present. Weapons raised, fingers on triggers, Max and crew were close on his six. Once inside, they spun, ready to target the enemy. Most of the overhead lighting had previously been shot out. Hardy took in the grisly sight. Despite being fully trained and battle hardened, he watched as the Marines wavered, weapons lowered. Ham was making gagging noises over the open channel. Max said, “Don’t you dare lose it in your helmet, Ham! If you have to spew, leave, and do it out in the passageway.” “I’m good, boss …” Hardy was somewhat surprised they didn’t all lose their collective lunch. The compartment was packed with what was left of the crew members. He counted several hundred poor souls lying prone on their backs. “Looks like they were … what? Tortured … mutilated?” Max commented. “This is bad, real fucking bad,” Grip said under his breath. The hold was half the size of a football field, and the scope of the horror was breathtaking. Max said, “Let’s clear this hold, just in case there are any bad guys lurking back there around those tall shelves.” Staying on high alert, they separated and moved out. Meanwhile, Hardy walked among the rows of bodies—each lying within a kind of metal, high-lipped pan. He tried to comprehend who, what, had done this to them. He tried to make sense of the alien “technology” apparent within each of the carcasses. Whatever it was, it was allowing these bodies to remain alive. Several minutes later, Max was back at his side. “I think some of these people are … still alive.” “No, Max … All of them are still alive.” “Good mother of God.” Grip joined them and knelt next to one body, a woman. “Uh … are those bite marks I’m seeing?” In the dimly lit hold, a light flickered above, casting eerie, strobing shadows upon the uniformed crew member—one that Hardy was certain once bore the visage of a captivating beauty. Now, her form was a grotesque blend of life and death, a


by and by." "There's time enough to think of that," said Marilla. "She's only thirteen in March. Though tonight it struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. Lynde made that dress a mite too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She's quick to learn and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queen's after a spell. But nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet." "Well now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on," said Matthew. "Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over." 26. The Story Club Is Formed Junior Avonlea found it hard to settle down to humdrum existence again. To Anne in particular things seemed fearfully flat, stale, and unprofitable after the goblet of excitement she had been sipping for weeks. Could she go back to the former quiet pleasures of those faraway days before the concert? At first, as she told Diana, she did not really think she could. "I'm positively certain, Diana, that life can never be quite the same again as it was in those olden days," she said mournfully, as if referring to a period of at least fifty years back. "Perhaps after a while I'll get used to it, but I'm afraid concerts spoil people for everyday life. I suppose that is why Marilla disapproves of them. Marilla is such a sensible woman. It must be a great deal better to be sensible; but still, I don't believe I'd really want to be a sensible person, because they are so unromantic. Mrs. Lynde says there is no danger of my ever being one, but you can never tell. I feel just now that I may grow up to be sensible yet. But perhaps that is only because I'm tired. I simply couldn't sleep last night for ever so long. I just lay awake and imagined the concert over and over again. That's one splendid thing about such affairs-it's so lovely to look back to them." Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and Bessie.told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs


will need you. I’ve made them strong. Unimaginably strong. Hard on the outside. Hard on the inside, too. But you must love them without condition. No matter what they look like. No matter how they speak or sound. I can create them. But you will love them. You will give them the love that was never given to you.’ * * * Back in the courtroom, President Mues declared: ‘We’ve been theoretical about this question for too long. Tomorrow we will reconvene in the Final Stage Chambers. We will ask this creature ourselves, directly – does it want to live with us? Or does it want to kill us? If even one senator doubts its intentions, we end this experiment for good.’ MCMURDO CITY THE ROSS ICE SHELF FINAL STAGE CHAMBERS NEXT DAY TWO HUNDRED METRES UNDER THE ice shelf, the senators stood in the observation tunnels, shuffling from boot to boot, some dressed in a patchwork of lynx furs repurposed from the lavish coats brought to the continent by oligarchs, others wearing gaudy-coloured synthetic thermals. No longer under any obligation to appear presentable for television appearances or magazine covers, some sported ungainly hair while others had allowed their beards to grow long. No one wore make-up or perfume for there was none to wear, everyone uniformly smelling of the same blubber-oil soap. Yet they looked better for the change, liberated from a superficial aesthetic, their skin aided by the almost complete absence of pollution, presenting as their authentic selves. In contrast to the past, when world leaders would travel in armoured motorcades with scores of protection officers, each of the senators was accompanied by two cold-survival specialists, men and women who carried tents, ropes, distress flares, ice axes, food rations – bodyguards against the cold, experts on the dangers of the Antarctic winds and the trickery of the snows. On duty they never took their backpacks off, even when they were inside, as if as fearful of being separated from their equipment as they were of being separated from their senator. President Mues had visited these chambers hundreds of times, holding discussions with the project leaders, studying the progress of these ice-adapted species. She’d never been able to call them people. She didn’t want to befriend them or feel close to them – it was essential she remain objective. She was here to answer a series of questions. What could they do to help ordinary-born people survive? Could they mine the Transantarctic Mountains or master the art of ice architecture? Embedded in her thinking was a reluctance to see them as equals: it was hard for her to shake the desire for an Antarctic servant. An intelligent, dutiful and hard-working class of citizen, impervious to the cold and steady-minded during the winter darkness, a labourer who could toil the year round with no need to shelter during the coldest months so that when humankind emerged from its annual hibernation it would discover all the things that had been built during its absence. For years the creatures had been held in limbo


many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me --a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so many men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret. Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens than that which I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter. The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires was the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been the study and desire of the wisest men


others. "Sit down all of you. They raided us for fire. They're having fun. But the--" Ralph was puzzled by the shutter that flickered in his brain. There was something he wanted to say; then the shutter had come down. "But the--" They were regarding him gravely, not yet troubled by any doubts about his sufficiency. Ralph pushed the idiot hair out of his eyes and looked at Piggy. "But the . . . oh . . . the fire! Of course, the fire!" He started to laugh, then stopped and became fluent instead. "The fire's the most important thing. Without the fire we can't be rescued. I'd like to put on war-paint and be a savage. But we must keep the fire burning. The fire's the most important thing on the island, because, because--" He paused again and the silence became full of doubt and wonder. Piggy whispered urgently. "Rescue." "Oh yes. Without the fire we can't be rescued. So we must stay by the fire and make smoke." When he stopped no one said anything. After the many brilliant speeches that had been made on this very spot Ralph's remarks seemed lame, even to the littluns. At last Bill held out his hands for the conch. "Now we can't have the fire up there--because we can't have the fire up there--we need more people to keep it going. Let's go to this feast and tell them the fire's hard on the rest of us. And the hunting and all that, being savages I mean--it must be jolly good fun." Samneric took the conch. "That must be fun like Bill says--and as he's invited us--" "--to a feast--" "--meat--" "--crackling--" "--I could do with some meat--" Ralph held up his hand. "Why shouldn't we get our own meat?" The twins looked at each other. Bill answered. "We don't want to go in the jungle." Ralph grimaced. "He--you know--goes." "He's a hunter. They're all hunters. That's different." No one spoke for a moment, then Piggy muttered to the sand. "Meat--" The littluns sat, solemnly thinking of meat, and dribbling. Overhead the cannon boomed again and the dry palm fronds clattered in a sudden gust of hot wind. "You are a silly little boy," said the Lord of the Flies, "just an ignorant, silly little boy." Simon moved his swollen tongue but said nothing. "Don't you agree?" said the Lord of the Flies. "Aren't you just a silly little boy?" Simon answered him in the same silent voice. "Well then," said the Lord of the Flies, "you'd better run off and play with the others. They think you're batty. You don't want Ralph to think you're batty, do you? You like Ralph a lot, don't you? And Piggy, and Jack?" Simon's head was tilted slightly up. His eyes could not break away and the Lord of the Flies hung in space before him. "What are you doing out here all alone? Aren't you afraid of me?" Simon shook. "There isn't anyone to help you. Only me. And I'm the Beast." Simon's mouth labored,


this business until we have had the advantage of meeting Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville in the morning." Chapter 4 Sir Henry Baskerville Our breakfast table was cleared early, and Holmes waited in his dressing-gown for the promised interview. Our clients were punc- tual to their appointment, for the clock had just struck ten when Dr. Mortimer was shown up, followed by the young baronet. The latter was a small, alert, dark-eyed man about thirty years of age, very sturdily built, with thick black eyebrows and a strong, pugnacious face. He wore a ruddy-tinted tweed suit and had the weather-beaten appearance of one who has spent most of his time in the open air, and yet there was something in his steady eye and the quiet assurance of his bearing which indicated the gentleman. "This is Sir Henry Baskerville," said Dr. Mortimer. "Why, yes," said he, "and the strange thing is, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that if my friend here had not proposed coming round to you this morning I should have come on my own account. I understand that you think out little puzzles, and I've had one this morning which wants more thinking out than I am able to give it." "Pray take a seat, Sir Henry. Do I understand you to say that you have yourself had some remarkable experience since you arrived in London?" "Nothing of much importance, Mr. Holmes. Only a joke, as like as not. It was this letter, if you can call it a letter, which reached me this morning." He laid an envelope upon the table, and we all bent over it. It was of common quality, grayish in colour. The address, "Sir Henry Baskerville, Northumberland Hotel," was printed in rough characters; the post-mark "Charing Cross," and the date of posting the preceding evening. "Who knew that you were going to the Northumberland Ho- tel?" asked Holmes, glancing keenly across at our visitor. "No one could have known. We only decided after I met Dr. Mortimer." "But Dr. Mortimer was no doubt already stopping there?" "No, I had been staying with a friend," said the doctor. "There was no possible indication that we intended to go to this hotel." "Hum! Someone seems to be very deeply interested in your movements." Out of the envelope he took a half-sheet of fools- cap paper folded into four. This he opened and spread flat upon the table. Across the middle of it a single sentence had been formed by the expedient of pasting printed words upon it. It ran: As you value your life or your reason keep away from the moor. The word "moor" only was printed in ink. "Now," said Sir Henry Baskerville, "perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Holmes, what in thunder is the meaning of that, and who it is that takes so much interest in my affairs?" "What do you make of it, Dr. Mortimer? You must allow that there is nothing supernatural about this, at any rate?" "No, sir, but it might very well come from someone who was convinced that


said George. "He's too brave for that. He cried with his voice- howled and howled and looked so miserable that he nearly broke my heart. And then I knew I couldn't possibly part with him." "What happened then?" asked Julian. "I went to Alf, a fisher-boy I know," said George, "and I asked him if he'd keep Tim for me, if I paid him all the pocket-money I get. He said he would, and so he does. That's why I never have any money to spend- it all has to go on Tim. He seems to eat an awful lot- don't you, Tim?" "Woof!" said Tim, and rolled over on his back, all his shaggy legs in the air. Julian tickled him. "How do you manage when you want any sweets or ice-creams?" said Anne, who spent most of her pocket-money on things of that sort. "I don't manage," said George. "I go without, of course." This sounded awful to the other children, who loved ice-creams, chocolates and sweets, and had a good many of them. They stared at George. "Well- I suppose the other children who play on the beach share their sweets and ices with you sometimes, don't they?" asked Julian. "I don't let them," said George. "If I can never give them any myself it's not fair to take them. So I say no." The tinkle of an ice-cream man's bell was heard in the distance. Julian felt in his pocket. He jumped up and rushed off, jingling his money. In a few moments he was back again, carrying four fat chocolate ice-cream bars. He gave one to Dick, and one to Anne, and then held out one to George. She looked at it longingly, but shook her head. "No, thanks," she said. "You know what I just said. I haven't any money to buy them, so I can't share mine with you, and I can't take any from you. It's mean to take from people if you can't give even a little back." "You can take from us," said Julian, trying to put the ice into George's brown hand. "We're your cousins." "No, thanks," said George again. "Though I do think it's nice of you." She looked at Julian out of her blue eyes and the boy frowned as he tried to think of a way to make the obstinate little girl take the ice. Then he smiled. "Listen," he said, "you've got something we badly want to share- in fact you've got a lot of things we'd like to share, if only you'd let us. You share those with us, and let us share things like ices with you. See?" "What things have I got that you want to share?" asked George, in surprise. "You've got a dog," said Julian, patting the big brown mongrel. "We'd love to share him with you, he's such a darling. And you've got a lovely island. We'd be simply thrilled if you'd share it sometimes. And you've got a wreck. We'd like to look at it and share it too. Ices


because Cathy taught him what she learnt, and worked or played with him in the fields. They both promised fair to grow up as rude as savages, the young master being entirely negligent how they behaved, and what they did, so they kept clear of him. He would not even have seen after their going to church on Sundays, only Joseph and the curate reprimanded his carelessness when they absented themselves, and that reminded him to order Heathcliff a flogging, and Catherine a fast from dinner or supper. But it was one of their chief amusements to run away to the moors in the morning and remain there all day, and the after- punishment grew a mere thing to laugh at. The curate might set as many chapters as he pleased for Catherine to get by heart, and Joseph might thrash Heathcliff till his arm ached; they forgot everything the minute they were together again, at least the minute they contrived some naughty plan of revenge; and many a time I've cried to myself to watch them growing more reckless daily, and I not daring to speak a syllable for fear of losing the small power I still retained over the unfriended creatures. One Sunday evening, it chanced that they were banished from the sitting-room, for making a noise, or a light offence of the kind, and when I went to call them to supper, I could discover them nowhere. We searched the house, above and below, and the yard and stables; they were invisible; and, at last, Hindley in a passion told us to bolt the doors, and swore nobody should let them in that night. The household went to bed; and I, too anxious to lie down, opened my lattice and put my head out to hearken, though it rained, determined to admit them in spite of the prohibition, should they return. In a while, I distinguished steps coming up the road, and the light of a lantern glimmered through the gate. I threw a shawl over my head and ran to prevent them from waking Mr. Earnshaw by knocking. There was Heathcliff, by himself; it gave me a start to see him alone. "Where is Miss Catherine?" I cried hurriedly. "No accident, I hope?" "At Thrushcross Grange," he answered, "and I would have been there too, but they had not the manners to ask me to stay." "Well, you will catch it!" I said, "you'll never be content will you're sent about your business. What in the world led you wandering to Thrushcross Grange?" "Let me get off my wet clothes, and I'll tell you all about it, Nelly," he replied. I bid him beware of rousing the master, and while he undressed, and I waited to put out the candle, he continued-- "Cathy and I escaped from the wash-house to have a ramble at liberty, and getting a glimpse of the Grange lights, we thought we would just go and see whether the Lintons passed their Sunday evenings standing shivering in corners, while their father and mother sat