The short-story only thread

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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby jingofever » Thu Nov 11, 2010 1:53 am

8 O’clock in the Morning

(Ray Nelson, 1963)

At the end of the show the hypnotist told his subjects, “Awake.”

Something unusual happened.

One of the subjects awoke all the way. This had never happened before. His name was George Nada and he blinked out at the sea of faces in the theatre, at first unaware of anything out of the ordinary. Then he noticed, spotted here and there in the crowd, the non-human faces, the faces of the Fascinators. They had been there all along, of course, but only George was really awake, so only George recognized them for what they were. He understood everything in a flash, including the fact that if he were to give any outward sign, the Fascinators would instantly command him to return to his former state, and he would obey.

He left the theatre, pushing out into the neon night, carefully avoiding any indication that he saw the green, reptilian flesh or the multiple yellow eyes of the rulers of the earth. One of them asked him, “Got a light buddy?” George gave him a light, then moved on.

At intervals along the street George saw the posters hanging with photographs of the Fascinators’ multiple eyes and various commands printed under them, such as, “Work eight hours, play eight hours, sleep eight hours,” and “Marry and Reproduce.” A TV set in the window of a store caught George’s eye, but he looked away in the nick of time. When he didn’t look at the Fascinator in the screen, he could resist the command, “Stay tuned to this station.”

George lived alone in a little sleeping room, and as soon as he got home, the first thing he did was to disconnect the TV set. In other rooms he could hear the TV sets of his neighbors, though. Most of the time the voices were human, but now and then he heard the arrogant, strangely bird-like croaks of the aliens. “Obey the government,” said one croak. “We are the government, ” said another. “We are your friends, you’d do anything for a friend, wouldn’t you?”

“Obey!”

“Work!”

Suddenly the phone rang.

George picked it up. It was one of the Fascinators.

“Hello,” it squawked. “This is your control, Chief of Police Robinson. You are an old man, George Nada. Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, your heart will stop. Please repeat.”

“I am an old man,” said George. “Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, my heart will stop.”

The control hung up

“No, it wont,” whispered George. He wondered why they wanted him dead. Did they suspect that he was awake? Probably. Someone might have spotted him, noticed that he didn’t respond the way the others did. If George were alive at one minute after eight tomorrow morning, then they would be sure.

“No use waiting here for the end,” he thought.

He went out again. The posters, the TV, the occasional commands from passing aliens did not seem to have absolute power over him, though he still felt strongly tempted to obey, to see things the way his master wanted him to see them. He passed an alley and stopped. One of the aliens was alone there, leaning against the wall. George walked up to him.

“Move on,” grunted the thing, focusing his deadly eyes on George.

George felt his grasp on awareness waver. For a moment the reptilian head dissolved into the face of a lovable old drunk. Of course the drunk would be lovable. George picked up a brick and smashed it down on the old drunk’s head with all his strength. For a moment the image blurred, then the blue-green blood oozed out of the face and the lizard fell, twitching and writhing. After a moment it was dead.

George dragged the body into the shadows and searched it. There was a tiny radio in its pocket and a curiously shaped knife and fork in another. The tiny radio said something in an incomprehensible language. George put it down beside the body, but kept the eating utensils.

“I can’t possibly escape,” thought George. “Why fight them?”

But maybe he could.

What if he could awaken others? That might be worth a try.

He walked twelve blocks to the apartment of his girl friend, Lil, and knocked on her door. She came to the door in her bathrobe.

“I want you to wake up,” he said

“I’m awake,” she said. “Come on in.”

He went in. The TV was playing. He turned it off.

“No,” he said. “I mean really wake up.” She looked at him without comprehension, so he snapped his fingers and shouted, “Wake up! The masters command that you wake up!”

“Are you off your rocker, George?” she asked suspiciously. “You sure are acting funny.” He slapped her face. “Cut that out!” she cried, “What the hell are you up to anyway?”

“Nothing,” said George, defeated. “I was just kidding around.”

“Slapping my face wasn’t just kidding around!” she cried.

There was a knock at the door.

George opened it.

It was one of the aliens.

“Can’t you keep the noise down to a dull roar?” it said.

The eyes and reptilian flesh faded a little and George saw the flickering image of a fat middle-aged man in shirtsleeves. It was still a man when George slashed its throat with the eating knife, but it was an alien before it hit the floor. He dragged it into the apartment and kicked the door shut. “What do you see there?” he asked Lil, pointing to the many-eyed snake thing on the floor.

“Mister…Mister Coney,” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror. “You…just killed him, like it was nothing at all.”

“Don’t scream,” warned George, advancing on her.

“I won’t George. I swear I won’t, only please, for the love of God, put down that knife.” She backed away until she had her shoulder blades pressed to the wall.

George saw that it was no use.

“I’m going to tie you up,” said George. “First tell me which room Mister Coney lived in.”

“The first door on your left as you go toward the stairs,” she said. “Georgie…Georgie. Don’t torture me. If you’re going to kill me, do it clean. Please, Georgie, please.”

He tied her up with bedsheets and gagged her, then searched the body of the Fascinator. There was another one of the little radios that talked a foreign language, another set of eating utensils, and nothing else.

George went next door.

When he knocked, one of the snake-things answered, “Who is it?”

“Friend of Mister Coney. I wanna see him,” said George.

“He went out for a second, but he’ll be right back.” The door opened a crack, and four yellow eyes peeped out. “You wanna come in and wait?”

“Okay,” said George, not looking at the eyes.

“You alone here?” he asked as it closed the door, its back to George.

“Yeah, why?”

He slit its throat from behind, then searched the apartment.

He found human bones and skulls, a half-eaten hand.

He found tanks with huge fat slugs floating in them.

“The children,” he thought, and killed them all.

There were guns too, of a sort he had never seen before. He discharged one by accident, but fortunately it was noiseless. It seemed to fire little poisoned darts.

He pocketed the gun and as many boxes of darts he could and went back to Lil’s place. When she saw him she writhed in helpless terror.

“Relax, honey” he said, opening her purse, “I just want to borrow your car keys.”

He took the keys and went downstairs to the street.

Her car was still parked in the same general area in which she always parked it. He recognized it by the dent in the right fender. He got in, started it, and began driving aimlessly. He drove for hours, thinking–desperately searching for some way out. He turned on the car radio to see if he could get some music, but there was nothing but news and it was all about him, George Nada, the homicidal maniac. The announcer was one of the masters, but he sounded a little scared. Why should he be? What could one man do?

George wasn’t surprised when he saw the road block, and he turned off on a side street before he reached it. No little trip to the country for you, Georgie boy, he thought to himself.

They had just discovered what he had done back at Lil’s place, so they would probably be looking for Lil’s car. He parked it in an alley and took the subway. There were no aliens on the subway, for some reason. Maybe they were too good for such things, or maybe it was just because it was so late at night.

When one finally did get on, George got off.

He went up to the street and went into a bar. One of the Fascinators was on the TV, saying over and over again, “We are your friends. We are your friends. We are your friends.” The stupid lizard sounded scared. Why? What could one man do against all of them?

George ordered a beer, the it suddenly struck him that the Fascinator on the TV no longer seemed to have any power over him. He looked at it again and thought, “It has to believe it can master me to do it. The slightest hint of fear on its part and the power to hypnotize is lost.” They flashed George’s picture on the TV screen and George retreated to the phone booth. He called his control, the Chief of Police.

“Hello, Robinson?” he asked.

“Speaking.”

“This is George Nada. I’ve figured out how to wake people up.”

“What? George, hang on. Where are you?” Robinson sounded almost hysterical.

He hung up and paid and left the bar. They would probably trace his call.

He caught another subway and went downtown.

It was dawn when he entered the building housing the biggest of the city’s TV studios. He consulted the building director and then went up in the elevator. The cop in front of the studio recognized him. “Why, you’re Nada!” he gasped.

George didn’t like to shoot him with the poison dart gun, but he had to.

He had to kill several more before he got into the studio itself, including all the engineers on duty. There were a lot of police sirens outside, excited shouts, and running footsteps on the stairs. The alien was sitting before the TV camera saying, “We are your friends. We are your friends,” and didn’t see George come in. When George shot him with the needle gun he simply stopped in mid-sentence and sat there, dead. George stood near him and said, imitating the alien croak, “Wake up. Wake up. See us as we are and kill us!”

It was George’s voice the city heard that morning, but it was the Fascinator’s image, and the city did awake for the very first time and the war began.

George did not live to see the victory that finally came. He died of a heart attack at exactly eight o’clock.
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby AlicetheKurious » Sun Nov 21, 2010 3:12 pm

Cool story. I wonder if it was written before or after November 22?
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby Jeff » Mon Feb 06, 2012 11:20 am

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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby brainpanhandler » Mon Oct 22, 2012 1:02 pm

Late one Sunday night, I was driving home from visiting a friend at a nearby university. It was late (11:30 or 12:00) and snowing very hard. These were all 2 lane, country roads which were very snowcovered and for most of the way I was the only one on the road. About half way thru my trip, a car passed me going VERY fast and coming from seemingly out of nowhere. I hadn't noticed him coming up behind me, which you normally would, especially when the roads are that empty. But I might have just been concentrating on the road ahead. Anyway, within minutes (if not seconds), he was out of sight and I was alone on the road again. About ten minutes later, I came on a man standing in the middle of the other lane, facing away from me. The car that had passed me was about 30 yards out in the field on the other side of the road. As I was only going about 20mph, it took me a few seconds to get to him. He never turned around or looked at me. As I came up next to him, I rolled my window down and asked him if he needed a ride or anything. After a very long pause (long enough for me to consider driving away and leaving him there) he turned to me and nodded his head up and down. Didn't say a word - just walked around the car and got in the passenger side. It immediately struck me that something was very wrong but at that point I thought he might be in shock or something. I started driving again, making small talk, seeing if he was okay. He said he was fine and then didn't say anything else at all no matter what I said. At that point I tried to casually look at him without being obvious and it really hit me that there was something wrong not only with how he acted but how he looked - sort of "put-together" somehow. Needless to say I was getting very uncomfortable as I still had at least an hour of driving left. Suddenly, he said very loudly "STOP! STOP! STOP!" This scared the heck out of me and I slammed on the brakes, almost sliding off the road in the process. As soon as the car stopped, he got out of the car very quickly and started walking towards a deserted barn that I hadn't even noticed about 15 yards off the road. He walked to the front of it and just stood there, looking back the way we had come. Now I was really confused. Not wanting to just leave him there in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night, in a snowstorm, I rolled down my window and asked him what he was doing. Again after a long pause, he turned to me and said "They'll be here for me soon. You better go." This was so out of context I didn't know what to say next. There were no cell phones in those days so there was no way he had called anyone - how could "they" know to come for him? Then he turned towards me and suddenly began walking, almost running, towards my car. That was enough for me - I hit the accelerator and took off but with the snow, my car kept sliding and I thought for a second he was going to catch me. The last I saw in my rear view mirror he was just standing in the middle of the road. It took me a couple of days to get over the whole thing and I don't think I ever drove that route again by myself.
http://www.forteantimes.com/forum/viewt ... c&start=15


Being off-season, few restaurants were open --- oh gosh, am I beginning to see a pattern here, --- and in the process of scouting out a place to eat, we ended up at a small place by the side of the road. It was in Wellfleet, an area that had restricted commercial growth so it was not populated heavily with hotels, McDonald's-type fast food joints, ectc. Being the off season, there weren't even many cars on the road. It was dusk.

This place was really just a small clapboard shack, no particular ambiance, but it did say something about fresh seafood on a sign out front...husband likes seafood, and there really wasan't much of a choice without a long drive to another area.
So, we go in. There are about ten small tables around this one room, a cash register by the door. Maybe four sets of people seated at tables. No hostess at the register, no waitstaff around, just the diners seated at the tables.
No one was saying a word. All just stared at each other. I don't recall if anybody looked at our entrance, or noted our arrival. We could hear, what sounded to be a 1955 transistor radio, playing in the back room which we assumed to be the kitchen. Very softly, we heard Elvis' "Blue Christmas."
OK, so no one was having dinner conversation, big deal, so husband and I sit at a table. The place settings were already set with paper plates, plastic utencils, and a plastic bib.
On the bib was printed the mandatory bright red lobster, so you wouldn't dribble onto your dinner finery.
All of the silent diners had placed a bib around their neck. No one had any food in front of them. Still no one said a word after we had seated ourselves and they continued to stare at each other.
So we waited for the appearance of a waiter or waitress. We waited. And waited. And waited some more. (Maybe 20 minutes or so.)
Nuthin' and no body.
The fluorescent lights hummed, Elvis played over and over, a cool breeze got chilly as the night came on and the air wafted into the small room through the screens on the open windows, nobody but husband and I said a word to one another and Elvis sang in the background.

Occasionally, we heard a screen door open and slam shut in the back room.

We finally got up and left. The other diners just sat there, cartooned lobster bibs in place, waiting for their meals.
http://www.forteantimes.com/forum/viewt ... c&start=60
"Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity." - Martin Luther King Jr.
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby chump » Tue Nov 06, 2012 1:52 am

The Colorado fires and the Batman shooting happened as I was still writing about JW, and so the two essays evolved together. JW is part 1, I guess, and this is part 2. I never thought of it a short story as I was writing, but it kinda turned out that way, so that's why I'm posting it here. It seems that anything could be a potential trigger, so as always be aware of that possibility. I like to think of this as just another scary story.


Hole in the Wall



In the early Spring following 9/11/2001, my friend and I floated the Green... Near Hole In The Wall, where Butch and the Wild Bunch would hide from the llaw. No TV, no cellphones, no news, and not even another boater - for over a week! We couldn't have known if the World had ended. We rode atop the ripples and through the rapids and often stepped ashore; scouting the whitewater, or hiking the pathways through the wild wood, exploring kivas, caves, cliff dwellings, petroglyphs, abandoned homesteads, orchards, rivulets, pools... And there were critters of course. So many adventures... I damn near wrote a book!


I don't exactly remember when I quit getting out in the world; turning my journey inward, harkening to the past, before I was even born, searching for where I'm at today. Like the future, I can still imagine a multitude of scenarios, and I'm lucky not to be stuck on just one. Not yet! Sometimes the truth itself seems mutable. One can interpret those rivulets in many ways. But, as I grow older, more and more, the future reminds me of before... Shambling backward along that increasingly fine line we call the present - where the future becomes the past, and vice versa - the memories emerge, and sometimes merge, like holograms... that slo-ow me... Synchronicities abound... The air sparkles with wonder. And it's always possible that it's gonna be a helluva ride.


One morning, as I was floating alone on a sturdy inflatable kayak that we brought along to play in the chutes, the river rounded a bend and calmly widened, drifting from the chilly shadow of the canyon walls to the shimmering water where the sun shone warm. Laying back in the boat, soaking up the blue sky between those sedimentary eons - it dawned on me... I'd been in this place before! But never in person... I had imagined it in my mind... As a part of my trance - before that deep, deep sleep - for a self hypnosis class that I took in college! It had been years, but I recognized this place - because I was there quite often for awhile! And now I was seeing it live! On the Green... I don't remember if I counted myself awake...


To set the stage for the opening scene, the hottest summer in history began in March of this year; when a controlled burn blew out of control! I posted a picture. Three residents burned to death, many homes were lost, and the area was ruined. It was a traumatic, sad and unneccesary mistake.


But, throughout the Spring and into the summer, fire after fire blackened our vista. Huge conflagrations! One after another! So many were of suspicious origin - that should've been extinquished before they grew - it began to smell like a conspiracy cooking!The air was smoky and the highways were crowded. I've never seen so many smokies, bikers, limos, groups on buses, Homeland Security and FEMA convoys, motorcades, mega- vans, military transports, trainloads of equipment, various unusual aircraft, a UFO (!), drills, incidents, accidents, debris on the road, robocops, new uniforms, military haircuts and creeps!


It was smoky in Telluride when I heard the news. All day Saturday, the fire grew. Manitou was evacuated on Sunday. Monday, the evacuation was lifted, but the mountain was still on fire. Tuesday, I was taking some pictures around my house there, when the fire whipped up and blazed in the other direction - clear over the mountains and into Colorado Springs; where I happened to be headed, so I shot some pictures there! An elderly couple suffered a fiery death, 348 homes were lost, and the cause is still "Under Investigation" . Arson is suspected - as were many other fires in the area: $100,000 reward! But again, the fire in Waldo Canyon should've been nipped in the bud!


The scuttlebutt is that local Firefighters responded to Waldo Canyon on Friday night! To extinquish a small fire! "But 'the Forest Service' wouldn't let them, saying 'It was their jurisdiction and they would take care of it!'"


Plopping in the easy chair for their fear, we're on the edge of our seat! People are continually shocked by the drama and violence - from all over the world - everyday! Jahiliyya!? Can you blame us? Video games are psychopathic. The polidiots think they're funny. Media stars are sexy, violent, selfish, impulsive, non-thinking, weird, edgy, love their guns, and they're always ready for a fuck or a fight, or to Blow Shit Up... Hard-core or regular!


The dog days smelled like a campfire and we couldn't escape the smoke. Living in the City of Fear, in a State of Anxiety, that uneasy feeling was growing. Trauma is relative, but I was definitely attuned to the tension in the streets.


On the morning before the hammer dropped in Aurora, I specifically warned my buddy over breakfast that the Traffic Vibe was getting pissy - like just before 9/11! People are driving like assholes, I told him, even the women! Cutting each other off and flipping the finger. My friend just nodded his head as I continued: Remember how drivers were so abrasive and rude just before September 11th? And then so noticeably nicer after it happened? The niceness lasted a couple of months. That night, I went to bed early...


I heard a click and a light shone bright in my eyes. I woke up like a shot at 12:34! I had accidentally set a timer and rolled out of bed to switch the light off, slept for an hour and got up at 5... The headline slapped me like a chick at the bar. "14 dead and 50 shot at Aurora Theatre!"


On the TV, "Corbin Bates" was repeating his story. Every channel was reporting that there was a shooter, and another shooter on the loose... Maybe more! Then, I watched as another guy described two bloody women pounding on the back door of theatre 8, and how he let them in, and promptly locked the door behind them. Someone? He thinks the shooter jiggled the door for about 5 seconds.....


Whoa! Right off the Bat... Man! It hit me like a baseball! A sleight of hand behind the slick production? Like Columbine! Two Oswalds in the Texas Theatre ! Who else could have gone in, and then out with the panicking patrons? Or into a car at the end of the block?


Now, the official story is that this geeky psycho genius student named Holmes, bought a ticket and strolled into the front of theatre 9, stepped out the exit door behind the screen to answer the phone, blocked the door open, slipped to his car (which was all by itself?), donned body armor and a gas mask, a semi-automatic assault rifle, a shotgun, 2 Glock .45's, and hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Then, demonstrating a serious lack of a sense of humor and unidentifiable beneathe his garb, this Joker casually hauls all this gear back in through the door - all by himself, as the movie was playing, throws tear gas up into both sides of the theatre, raises his weapon(s), fires two rounds into the ceiling, and proceeds to shoot the place up - killing (at least) a dozen, horribly wounding 58 , and ruining the movie for everyone else!


Alas, I already knew... After a few hundred revelations, a picture, indistinct, in the emulsion (always changing), suddenly becomes more clear. Certain modi operandi began to appear. We've been on this trip before, you know - it is a stitch in time, you know... Solomon through Jesus through JFK, 9-11 and into the future, every generation has their cross to bear. The war games, the stand down, the insider trading, the demolition and disinformation... The war in Iraq... Same as it ever was...


Viewing the world through those smog colored glasses in the wake of the fires, my wretched imagination floating from one conspiracy to the next, I saw a theatre full of actors, assasination for hire, and a massacre staged with the perplexity of Dallas, Memphis, LA , OKC, Littleton , Blacksburg, Dunblane, London, Mumbai, Tucson, and Atoya... Gladio... AlQaida... A bunch of Fungi(s)!


The triggers are everywhere! "Very sophisticated!" "Booby traps!" "In the shooter's apartment!" "Loud music was blaring. His door was ajar and rigged to blow!!" Evacuate the block! What was Holmes thinking? Was he incoherent in the car, or semi-lucid at the end of the block? Tennessee plates? Who warned the cops? Where is the video? Why no footprints in that blood in the back?


Reading further, we learned that "Corbin Dates" was good in front of the camera because he happens to be an actor- with half a dozen names. But, his description was clear: The shooter had help at the door, and the guy he saw was "5-8 - 5-9". According to the FBI, Holmes is 6-3. Holmes says 6'. His arrest report says 5-11.


Such a strange string of stories surrounding Holmes's father and the LIBOR scandel, his potential handlers and psychiatrists, Jessica Ghawi and some of the other victims, an eerily similiar drill for the identical theatre scenario being conducted that very day! Targetted assasinations? Michaael Chertoff was in town. Holmes is an enigma reminiscent of MK-Ultra, Montauk, Monarch, Oswald, Brevik, Laughner, and Cho...


If the Aurora theatre massacre was an Psy-op, and I'm pretty sure that it was, what is the thread that ties it together? Who has the ability to co-ordinate these military/civilian style 'special ops' with the co-operation of the media, law enforcement, Hollywood style, technological magic, University dynamics, the psychological board, and the Bench? Quite a team! Brought in a crew from the big, rotten apple. Judges with their pants down have no choice but to cover it up? Throw the sticks and hazard a guess... Money! Location, location, location... Hmmm... The country club!? (I don't know!) The Department of Justice knows who did it? Caught in the act! Remember what Proutty said?


Why do they do it? (Whoever they are.) They have enough money! Gun control? NWO? A lust for blood? To foster more fear!? Targeted assasinations? Libor scandel mitigation? Agenda 21? Maybe all those... All I know is what I read on the Net... The world beckons... I'm drifting away...


Wandering through these deep dark passages on an unbelievable journey into a sordid past, I feel like Tom Sawyer... The last vestige of a dynasty that shoulda, coulda been. Lost on the Sea of Apathy - immersed in the dollar - the dreaded well of hate and fear, am I breathing life into the grim reality that the sorcerers have envisioned? Triangulating the evil vibe to make it more real? Am I polluting the river? Or is the river polluting me? The challenge (for me now) is to embrace the future... Like it was in the sixties! Darn it! I need to think!


"I'm so Dizzy, my head is spinnin'..." Cute little Jessica: She looks like a girl in my fifth grade class... Never expected that from 'Debbie". She wore those glasses in the talent show, in a purple leotard, twirling a baton and dancing to the beat of Tommy Roe's hit. Even the teacher was laughing! Whenever I heard that song, I've always remembered that moment with a smile ... It was so cute! But now that moment is tainted... A sad caveat in my stream of consciousness. I don't care to imagine how Jessica's parents must feel.


She stepped out her door, like so many mornings before. Her friends were waiting a few doors away - so they could walk to school with each other. But the door shut behind her and Jessica was gone. Three days later, her backpack was found. DNA samples were taken from more than 500 residents. Three days after that, trash men found a body "not intact" in an "open space" in the other direction. Such is the news in Colorado. Another dead Jessica... Children are scared of strangers, Mothers are afraid for their kids. Everyday, an attempted abduction. Don't talk to anybody! Be afraid. Very Afraid!


A week after her body was found, a 17 year old suspect was turned in by his mother. Convicted by the media... (Apparently he confessed and the little girl's limbs were found in their crawl space.) He did it alone, of course!


"Truth. As terrible as death. But harder to find. I'm lucky." (PKD)


Extending the boundaries of finite dimensions, I see a method to the madness of the Devil behind the veil: A clever device to compel us into the reality of their making! Sympathizing with every major crisis, everyday, from all around the world, it feels like doom all the time! Legalized thievery, slavery, murder and mayhem, contrived by the ownership, for the good of us all...Isn't this a science we should studying??


As I grow older, more and more, shambling backward along that fine line we call the present - where the future becomes the past, and vice versa - memories emerge, and sometimes merge, like holograms that slo-ow me... Synchronicities abound... And the air sparkles with wonder. The whole World is alive.


Is every elemental dot of our space and time awareness fractally manipulated from a dimension just beyond? (Or by a geek on a keyboard in his parent's garage?) Have you been burnt by the sun as it travels accross the sky? Or grown the clouds or blown them away with the power of your mind? Each of us has a perspective, you know, of this life that we share together, you know... Making it up as we float along, we could split the World into cosmic dust, or turn it into a garden of Eden, or a reptile, or whatever we want... The Law of Nature belongs to... Me!? Oh Shit!


Turn off the TV! (I tell myself.) Nihilism is the reason we strive to live. (Live = eviL spelled backward, of course.) The world is as it always was! Light and dark, yin and yang, Love and fear - a myriad of colors and unlimited pixels- forever and ever... (I tell myself:) You have an eternity to think about what you did, or didn't do in this life. Are we tortured Souls challenging themselves as we approach Enlightenment? Or forever stranded in the Abyss? All I know is - what I do now, whether I make others cry or smile, will haunt or delight me forever -and I don't want to let us down. (So, I tell myself: ) Imagine happiness! Think Love! Nourish the beauty - feed ourselves and not the beast. And look for those blue skies between the canyon walls.

...---...


A simulation?
Of course!
Have I said this before?
Nevermind! The picture will develop soon enough.


Okay... On the count of three... Veni, vidi, vamoose... I hope it was scary.
Last edited by chump on Tue Nov 06, 2012 10:55 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby Schmazo » Tue Nov 06, 2012 2:53 pm

The Sunset Channel:
There’s an autistic kid who remembers
Every sundown he’s experienced.
Tries to see one every dusk
Then invests them in his memory bank
It’s quite remarkable this ability he’s honed
Cherry-picking shade and spectrum details
He can tell you –if you want to know- how the landscape shifted
Anywhere in the world on November 22, 1963 - for instants.
To better see nightfall, he’ll go on hayrides
Sit on top of stacks and find poetry up there
Sways back his hip head through covered bridges
Just fell off the rear of a spud wagon the other day
From an early age he realized Sunsets would become something
So important that he would make his mark on the world with them
Sometimes his kinfolk laugh –splash puddle remarks behind his back
Hardly realizing that it is they who are more crippled then he.
One evening it was too stormy to see much of the sky
So he went down to the Zenith TV factory
Gazed in the window to see if they
Might be featuring a sunset on TV
Nothing was on, so he begin to kindly query passerby
“Have you seen a hole in the sky
where some Sol might squeeze through?”
Burgess Meredith handed him a remote control to part the stratosphere
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby AhabsOtherLeg » Thu Nov 08, 2012 1:12 pm

An Imperial Message

by Franz Kafka

Translation by Ian Johnston


The Emperor—so they say—has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of the verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death—all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs—in front of all of them he dispatched his herald.

The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistance, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts.

He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years.

And if he finally burst through the outermost door—but that can never, never happen—the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes.
"The universe is 40 billion light years across and every inch of it would kill you if you went there. That is the position of the universe with regard to human life."
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby The Consul » Thu Nov 29, 2012 5:50 pm

The first time I saw her was when she opened the Judas Hole. She bent over with blinking false lashed eyes as she slid in the tray with donut holes and a half pint carton of chocolate milk. She smiled when I started singing Cripple Creek Ferry. I didn't get to finish my donut holes before Goose came in and beat the shit out of me again, putting me back in the same straight jacket that had the blood stains from the previous beatings.

I knew if I ever saw her again I would remember her and that together we would destroy as much of the world as we could.
" Morals is the butter for those who have no bread."
— B. Traven
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby ShinShinKid » Sat Feb 09, 2013 1:56 pm

I'm posting a link because I'm no good at these things!

http://imgur.com/a/Sp0Ds

Not mine, by the way...
Well played, God. Well played".
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby justdrew » Sat Feb 09, 2013 7:34 pm

[imgur-album]http://imgur.com/a/Sp0Ds[/imgur-album]

you can just put the url inside the "imgur-album" tag :thumbsup
By 1964 there were 1.5 million mobile phone users in the US
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby Seamus OBlimey » Tue Feb 12, 2013 3:42 pm

WHORES MEET IN VEGEBURGER SCANDAL

Kaz: Is that a vegeburger Shaz?

Shaz: Yeah, I'm not eating no more meat 'til I know what's in it.

Kaz: That's gonna cost you a few quid innit?

Shaz: Ha! Dirty cow!

Kaz:Ha Ha Ha Ha

Shaz: Ha Ha Ha Ha

sorry, don't know where best to post it, but at least it's topical
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby jingofever » Sun Apr 06, 2014 4:01 am

L.P.D.: LIBERTARIAN POLICE DEPARTMENT

But Fry and Laurie already did it:
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Re: The short-story only thread

Postby jingofever » Sat Jun 28, 2014 12:57 am

Imposter - Philip K. Dick

"One of these days I'm going to take time off," Spence Olham said at first-meal. He looked around at his wife. "I think I've earned a rest. Ten years is a long time."
"And the Project?"
"The war will be won without me. This ball of clay of ours isn't really in much danger." Olham sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. "The newsmachines alter dispatches to make it appear the Outspacers are right on top of us. You know what I'd like to do on my vacation? I'd like to take a camping trip to those mountains outside of town, where we went that time. Remember? I got poison oak and you almost stepped on a gopher snake."
"Sutton Wood?" Mary began to clear away the food dishes. "The Wood was burned a few weeks ago. I thought you knew. Some kind of flash fire."
Olham sagged. "Didn't they even try to find the cause?" His lips twisted. "No one cares anymore. All they can think of is the war." He clamped his jaws together, the whole picture coming up in his mind, the Outspacers, the war, the needle-ships.
"How can we think about anything else?"
Olham nodded. She was right, of course. The dark little ships out of Alpha Centauri had bypassed the Earth cruisers easily, leaving them like helpless turtles. It had been one-way fights, all the way back to Terra.
All the way, until the protec-bubble was demonstrated by Westinghouse Labs. Thrown around the major Earth cities and finally the planet itself, the bubble was the first real defense, the first legitimate answer to the Outspacers -- as the news-machines labeled them.
But to win the war, that was another thing. Every lab, every project was working night and day, endlessly, to find something more: a weapon for positive combat. His own project, for example. All day long, year after year.
Olham stood up, putting out his cigarette. "Like the Sword of Damocles. Always hanging over us. I'm getting tired. All I want to do is take a long rest. But I guess everybody feels that way."
He got his jacket from the closet and went out on the front porch. The shoot would be along any moment, the fast little bug that would carry him to the Project.
"I hope Nelson isn't late." He looked at his watch. "It's almost seven."
"Here the bug comes," Mary said, gazing between the rows of houses. The sun glittered behind the roofs, reflecting against the heavy lead plates. The settlement was quiet; only a few people were stirring. "I'll see you later. Try not to work beyond your shift, Spence."
Olham opened the car door and slid inside, leaning back against the seat with a sigh. There was an older man with Nelson.
"Well?" Olham said, as the bug shot ahead. "Heard any interesting news?"
The usual," Nelson said. "A few Outspace ships hit, another asteroid abandoned for strategic reasons."
"It'll be good when we get the Project into final stage. Maybe it's just the propaganda from the newsmachines, but in the last month I've gotten weary of all this. Everything seems so grim and serious, no color to life."
"Do you think the war is in vain?" the older man said suddenly. "You are an integral part of it, yourself."
"This is Major Peters," Nelson said. Olham and Peters shook hands. Olham studied the older man.
"What brings you along so early?" he said. "I don't remember seeing you at the Project before."
"No, I'm not with the Project," Peters said, "but I know something about what you're doing. My own work is altogether different."
A look passed between him and Nelson. Olham noticed it and he frowned. The bug was gaining speed, flashing across the barren, lifeless ground toward the distant rim of the Project building.
"What is your business?" Olham said. "Or aren't you permitted to talk about it?" "I'm with the government," Peters said. "With FSA, the security organ."
"Oh?" Olham raised an eyebrow. "Is there any enemy infiltration in this region?" "As a matter of fact I'm here to see you, Mr Olham."
Olham was puzzled. He considered Peters" words, but he could make nothing of them. "To see me? Why?"
"I'm here to arrest you as an Outspace spy. That's why I'm up so early this morning. Grab him Nelson --"
The gun drove into Olham's ribs. Nelson's hands were shaking, trembling with released emotion, his face pale. He took a deep breath and let it out again.
"Shall we kill him now?" he whispered to Peters. "I think we should kill him now. We can't wait."
Olham stared into his friend's face. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Both men were staring at him steadily, rigid and grim with fright. Olham felt dizzy. His head ached and spun.
"I don't understand," he murmured.
At that moment the shoot car left the ground and rushed up, heading into space. Below them the Project fell away, smaller and smaller, disappearing. Olham shut his mouth.
"We can wait a little," Peters said. "I want to ask him some questions first."
Olham gazed dully ahead as the bug rushed through space.
"The arrest was made all right," Peters said into the vidscreen. On the screen the features of the security chief showed. "It should be a load off everyone's mind." "Any complications?"
"None. He entered the bug without suspicion. He didn't seem to think my presence was too unusual."
"Where are you now?"
"On our way out, just inside the protec-bubble. We're moving at a maximum speed. You can assume that the critical period is past. I'm glad the takeoff jets in this craft were in good working order. If there had been any failure at that point --"
"Let me see him," the security chief said. He gazed directly at Olham where he sat, his hands in his lap, staring ahead.
"So that's the man." He looked at Olham for a time. Olham said nothing. At last the chief nodded to Peters. "All right. That's enough." A faint trace of disgust wrinkled his features. "I've seen all I want. You've done something that will be remembered for a long time. They're preparing some sort of citation for both of you."
"That's not necessary," Peters said.
"How much danger is there now? Is there still much chance that --"
"There is some chance, but not too much. According to my understanding it requires a verbal key phrase. In any case we'll have to take the risk."
"I'll have the Moon base notified you're coming."
"No." Peters shook his head. "I'll land the ship outside, beyond the base. I don't want it in jeopardy."
"Just as you like." The chief's eyes flickered as he glanced again at Olham. Then his image faded.
The screen blanked.
Olham shifted his gaze to the window. The ship was already through the protec-bubble, rushing
with greater and greater speed all the time. Peters was in a hurry; below him, rumbling under the floor, the jets were wide-open. They were afraid, hurrying frantically, because of him.
Next to him on the seat, Nelson shifted uneasily. "I think we should do it now," he said. "I'd give anything if we could get it over with."
"Take it easy," Peters said. "I want you to guide the ship for a while so I can talk to him."
He slid over beside Olham, looking into his face. Presently he reached out and touched him gingerly, on the arm and then on the cheek.
Olham said nothing. If I could let Mary know, he thought again. If I could find some way of letting her know. He looked around the ship. How? The vidscreen? Nelson was sitting by the board, holding the gun. There was nothing he could do. He was caught, trapped.
But why?
"Listen," Peters said, "I want to ask you some questions. You know where we're going. We're moving Moonward. In an hour we'll land on the far side, on the desolate side. After we land you'll be turned over immediately to a team of men waiting there. Your body will be destroyed at once. Do you understand that?" He looked at his watch. "Within two hours your parts will be strewn over the landscape. There won't be anything left of you."
Olham struggled out of his lethargy. "Can't you tell me --"
"Certainly, I'll tell you." Peters nodded. "Two days ago we received a report that an Outspace ship had penetrated the protec-bubble. The ship let off a spy in the form of a humanoid robot. The robot was to destroy a particular human being and take his place."
Peters looked calmly at Olham.
"Inside the robot was a U-Bomb. Our agent did not know how the bomb was to be detonated, but he conjectured that it might be by a particular spoken phrase, a certain group of words. The robot would live the life of the person he killed, entering into his usual activities, his job, his social life. He had been constructed to resemble that person. No one would know the difference."
Olham's face went sickly chalk.
"The person whom the robot was to impersonate was Spence Olham, a high-ranking official at one of the research Projects. Because this particular Project was approaching crucial stage, the presence of an animate bomb, moving toward the center of the Project --"
Olham stared down at his hands. "But I'm Olham."
"Once the robot had located and killed Olham it was a simple matter to take over his life. The robot was released from the ship eight days ago. The substitution was probably accomplished over the last weekend, when Olham went for a short walk in the hills."
"But I'm Olham." He turned to Nelson, sitting at the controls. "Don't you recognize me? You've known me for twenty years. Don't you remember how we went to college together?" He stood up. "You and I were at the University. We had the same room." He went toward Nelson.
"Stay away from me!" Nelson snarled.
"Listen. Remember our second year? Remember that girl? What was her name --" He rubbed his forehead. "The one with the dark hair. The one we met over at Ted's place."
"Stop!" Nelson waved the gun frantically. "I don't want to hear any more. You killed him! You. . . machine."
Olham looked at Nelson. "You're wrong. I don't know what happened, but the robot never reached me. Something must have gone wrong. Maybe the ship crashed." He turned to Peters. "I'm Olham. I know it. No transfer was made. I'm the same as I've always been."
He touched himself, running his hands over his body. "There must be some way to prove it. Take me back to Earth. An X-ray examination, a neurological study, anything like that will show you. Or maybe we can find the crashed ship."
Neither Peters nor Nelson spoke.
"I am Olham," he said again. "I know I am. But I can't prove it."
"The robot," Peters said, "would be unaware that he was not the real Spence Olham. He would become Olham in mind as well as body. He was given an artificial memory system, false recall. He would look like him, have his memories, his thoughts and interests, perform his job.
"But there would be one difference. Inside the robot is a U-Bomb, ready to explode at the trigger phrase." Peters moved a little away. That's the one difference. That's why we're taking you to the Moon. They'll disassemble you and remove the bomb. Maybe it will explode, but it won't matter, not there."
Olham sat down slowly.
"We'll be there soon," Nelson said.
He lay back, thinking frantically, as the ship dropped slowly down. Under them was the pitted surface of the Moon, the endless expanse of ruin. What could he do? What would save him? "Get ready," Peters said.
In a few minutes he would be dead. Down below he could see a tiny dot, a building of some kind. There were men in the building, the demolition team, waiting to tear him to bits. They would rip him open, pull off his arms and legs, break him apart. When they found no bomb they would be surprised; they would know, but it would be too late.
Olham looked around the small cabin. Nelson was still holding the gun. There was no chance there. If he could get to a doctor, have an examination made -- that was the only way. Mary could help him. He thought frantically, his mind racing. Only a few minutes, just a little time left. If he could contact her, get word to her some way.
"Easy," Peters said. The ship came down slowly, bumping on the rough ground. There was silence.
"Listen," Olham said thickly. "I can prove I'm Spence Olham. Get a doctor. Bring him here --"
"There's the squad," Nelson pointed. "They're coming." He glanced nervously at Olham. "I hope nothing happens."
"We'll be gone before they start work," Peters said. "We'll be out of here in a moment." He put on his pressure suit. When he had finished he took the gun from Nelson. "I'll watch him for a moment."
Nelson put on his pressure suit, hurrying awkwardly. "How about him?" He indicated Olham. "Will he need one?"
"No." Peters shook his head. "Robots probably don't require oxygen."
The group of men were almost to the ship. They halted, waiting. Peters signaled to them. "Come on!" He waved his hand and the men approached warily; stiff, grotesque figures in their inflated suits.
"If you open the door," Olham said, "it means my death. It will be murder."
"Open the door," Nelson said. He reached for the handle.
Olham watched him. He saw the man's hand tighten around the metal rod. In a moment the door
would swing back, the air in the ship would rush out. He would die, and presently they would realize their mistake. Perhaps at some other time, when there was no war, men might not act this way, hurrying an individual to his death because they were afraid. Everyone was frightened, everyone was willing to sacrifice the individual because of the group fear.
He was being killed because they could not wait to be sure of his guilt. There was not enough time.
He had been best man at his wedding. Now Nelson was going to kill him. But Nelson was not wicked; it
He looked at Nelson. Nelson had been his friend for years. They had gone to school together.
was not his fault. It was the times. Perhaps it had been the same way during the plagues. When men had shown a spot they probably had been killed, too, without a moment's hesitation, without proof, on suspicion alone. In times of danger there was no other way.
He did not blame them. But he had to live. His life was too precious to be sacrificed. Olham thought quickly. What could he do? Was there anything? He looked around.
"Here goes," Nelson said.
"You're right," Olham said. The sound of his own voice surprised him. It was the strength of desperation. "I have no need of air. Open the door."
They paused, looking at him in curious alarm.
"Go ahead. Open it. It makes no difference." Olham's hand disappeared inside his jacket. "I wonder how far you two can run?"
"Run?"
"You have fifteen seconds to live." Inside his jacket his fingers twisted, his arm suddenly rigid. He relaxed, smiling a little. "You were wrong about the trigger phrase. In that respect you were mistaken. Fourteen seconds, now."
Two shocked faces stared at him from the pressure suits. Then they were struggling, running, tearing the door open. The air shrieked out, spilling into the void. Peters and Nelson bolted out of the ship. Olham came after them. He grasped the door and dragged it shut. The automatic pressure system chugged furiously, restoring the air. Olham let his breath out with a shudder.
One more second --
Beyond the window the two men had joined the group. The group scattered, running in all directions. One by one they threw themselves down, prone on the ground. Olham seated himself at the control board. He moved the dials into place. As the ship rose up into the air the men below scrambled to their feet and stared up, their mouths open. "Sorry," Olham murmured, "but I've got to get back to Earth." He headed the ship back the way it had come.
It was night. All around the ship crickets chirped, disturbing the chill darkness. Olham bent over the vidscreen. Gradually the image formed; the call had gone through without trouble. He breathed a sigh of relief.
"Mary," he said. The woman stared at him. She gasped.
"Spence! Where are you? What's happened?"
"I can't tell you. Listen, I have to talk fast. They may break this call off any minute. Go to the Project grounds and get Dr Chamberlain. If he isn't there, get any doctor. Bring him to the house and have him stay there. Have him bring equipment, X-ray, fluoroscope, everything."
"But --"
"Do as I say. Hurry. Have him get it ready in an hour." Olham leaned toward the screen. "Is everything all right? Are you alone?"
"Alone?"
"Is anyone with you? Has. . . has Nelson or anyone contacted you?"
"No. Spence, I don't understand."
"All right. I'll see you at the house in an hour. And don't tell anyone anything. Get Chamberlain there on any pretext. Say you're very ill."
He broke the connection and looked at his watch. A moment later he left the ship, stepping down into the darkness. He had a half mile to go. He began to walk.
One light showed in the window, the study light. He watched it, kneeling against the fence. There was no sound, no movement of any kind. He held his watch up and read it by starlight. Almost an hour had passed.
Along the street a shoot bug came. It went on.
Olham looked toward the house. The doctor should have already come. He should be inside, waiting with Mary. A thought struck him. Had she been able to leave the house? Perhaps they had intercepted her. Maybe he was moving into a trap.
But what else could he do?
With a doctor's records, photographs and reports, there was a chance, a chance of proof. If he could be examined, if he could remain alive long enough for them to study him --
He could prove it that way. It was probably the only way. His one hope lay inside the house. Dr Chamberlain was a respected man. He was the staff doctor for the Project. He would know, his word on the matter would have meaning. He could overcome their hysteria, their madness, with facts.
Madness -- that was what it was. If only they would wait, act slowly, take their time. But they could not wait. He had to die, die at once, without proof, without any kind of trial or examination.The simplest test would tell, but they had no time for the simplest test. They could think only of the danger. Danger, and nothing more.
He stood up and moved toward the house. He came up on the porch. At the door he paused, listening. Still no sound. The house was absolutely still.
Too still.
Olham stood on the porch, unmoving. They were trying to be silent inside. Why? It was a small house; only a few feet away, beyond the door, Mary and Dr Chamberlain should be standing. Yet he could hear nothing, no sound of voices, nothing at all. He looked at the door. It was a door he had opened and closed a thousand times, every morning and every night.
He put his hand on the knob. Then, all at once, he reached out and touched the bell instead. The bell pealed, off some place in the back of the house. Olham smiled. He could hear movement.
Mary opened the door. As soon as he saw her face he knew.
He ran, throwing himself into the bushes. A security officer shoved Mary out of the way, firing past her. The bushes burst apart. Olham wriggled around the side of the house. He leaped up and ran, racing frantically into the darkness. A searchlight snapped on, a beam of light circling past him.
He crossed the road and squeezed over a fence. He jumped down and made his way across a backyard. Behind him men were coming, security officers, shouting to each other as they came. Olham gasped for breath, his chest rising and falling.
Her face -- he had known at once. The set lips, the terrified, wretched eyes. Suppose he had gone ahead, pushed open the door and entered! They had tapped the call and come at once, as soon as he had broken off. Probably she believed their account. No doubt she thought he was the robot, too.
Olham ran on and on. He was losing the officers, dropping them behind. Apparently they were not much good at running. He climbed a hill and made his way down the other side. In a moment he would be back at the ship. But where to, this time? He slowed down, stopping. He could see the ship already, outlined against the sky, where he had parked it. The settlement was behind him; he was on the outskirts of the wilderness between the inhabited places, where the forests and desolation began. He crossed a barren field and entered the trees.
As he came toward it, the door of the ship opened.
Peters stepped out, framed against the light. In his arms was a heavy Boris gun. Olham stopped, rigid. Peters stared around him, into the darkness. "I know you're there, some place," he said. "Come on up here, Olham. There are security men all around you."
Olham did not move.
"Listen to me. We will catch you very shortly. Apparently you still do not believe you're the robot. Your call to the woman indicates that you are still under the illusion created by your artificial memories.
"But you are the robot. You are the robot, and inside you is the bomb. Any moment the trigger phrase may be spoken, by you, by someone else, by anyone. When that happens the bomb will destroy everything for miles around. The Project, the woman, all of us will be killed. Do you understand?"
Olham said nothing. He was listening. Men were moving toward him, slipping through the woods.
"If you don't come out, we'll catch you. It will only be a matter of time. We no longer plan to remove you to the Moon base. You will be destroyed on sight, and we will have to take the chance that
the bomb will detonate. I have ordered every available security officer into the area. The whole county is being searched, inch by inch. There is no place you can go. Around this wood is a cordon of armed men. You have about six hours left before the last inch is covered."
Olham moved away. Peters went on speaking; he had not seen him at all. It was too dark to see anyone. But Peters was right. There was no place he could go. He was beyond the settlement, on the outskirts where the woods began. He could hide for a time, but eventually they would catch him.
Only a matter of time.
Olham walked quietly through the wood. Mile by mile, each part of the county was being measured off, laid bare, searched, studied, examined. The cordon was coming all the time, squeezing him into a smaller and smaller space.
What was there left? He had lost the ship, the one hope of escape. They were at his home; his wife was with them, believing, no doubt, that the real Olham had been killed. He clenched his fists. Some place there was a wrecked Outspace needle-ship, and in it the remains of the robot. Somewhere nearby the ship had crashed and broken up.
And the robot lay inside, destroyed.
A faint hope stirred him. What if he could find the remains? If he could show them the wreckage, the remains of the ship, the robot --
But where? Where would he find it?
He walked on, lost in thought. Some place, not too far off, probably. The ship would have landed close to the Project; the robot would have expected to go the rest of the way on foot. He went up the side of the hill and looked around. Crashed and burned. Was there some clue, some hint? Had he read anything, heard anything? Some place close by, within walking distance. Some wild place, a remote spot where there would be no people.
Suddenly Olham smiled. Crashed and burned -- Sutton Wood.
He increased his pace.
It was morning. Sunlight filtered down through the broken trees, onto the man crouching at the edge of the clearing. Olham glanced up from time to time, listening. They were not far off, only a few minutes away. He smiled.
Down below him, strewn across the clearing and into the charred stumps that had been Sutton Wood, lay a tangled mass of wreckage. In the sunlight it glittered a little, gleaming darkly. He had not had too much trouble finding it. Sutton Wood was a place he knew well; he had climbed around it many times in his life, when he was younger. He had known where he would find the remains. There was one peak that jutted up suddenly, without a warning.
A descending ship, unfamiliar with the Wood, had little chance of missing it. And now he squatted, looking down at the ship, or what remained of it.
Olham stood up. He could hear them, only a little distance away, coming together, talking in low tones. He tensed himself. Everything depended on who first saw him. If it was Nelson, he had no chance. Nelson would fire at once. He would be dead before they saw the ship. But if he had time to call out, hold them off for a moment -- that was all he needed. Once they saw the ship he would be safe.
But if they fired first --
A charred branch cracked. A figure appeared, coming forward uncertainly. Olham took a deep breath. Only a few seconds remained, perhaps the last seconds of his life. He raised his arms, peering intently.
It was Peters.
"Peters!" Olham waved his arms. Peters lifted his gun, aiming. "Don't fire!" His voice shook. "Wait a minute. Look past me, across the clearing."
him.
"I've found him," Peters shouted. Security men came pouring out of the burned woods around "Don't shoot. Look past me. The ship, the needle-ship. The Outspace ship. Look!"
Peters hesitated. The gun wavered.
"It's down there," Olham said rapidly. "I knew I'd find it here. The burned wood. Now you believe me. You'll find the remains of the robot in the ship. Look, will you?"
"There is something down there," one of the men said nervously.
"Shoot him!" a voice said. It was Nelson.
"Wait." Peters turned sharply. "I'm in charge. Don't anyone fire. Maybe he's telling the truth." "Shoot him," Nelson said. "He killed Olham. Any minute he may kill us all. If the bomb goes off
--"
"Shut up." Peters advanced toward the slope. He stared down. "Look at that." He waved two men up to him. "Go down there and see what that is."
The men raced down the slope, across the clearing. They bent down, poking in the ruins of the ship.
"Well?" Peters called.
Olham held his breath. He smiled a little. It must be there; he had not had time to look, himself, but it had to be there. Suddenly doubt assailed him. Suppose the robot had lived long enough to wander away? Suppose his body had been completely destroyed, burned to ashes by the fire?
He licked his lips. Perspiration came out on his forehead. Nelson was staring at him, his face still livid. His chest rose and fell.
"Kill him," Nelson said. "Before he kills us."
The two men stood up.
"What have you found?" Peters said. He held the gun steady. "Is there anything there?" "Looks like something. It's a needle-ship, all right. There's something beside it."
"I'll look." Peters strode past Olham. Olham watched him go down the hill and up to the men.
The others were following after him, peering to see.
"It's a body of some sort," Peters said. "Look at it!"
Olham came along with them. They stood around in a circle, staring down.
On the ground, bent and twisted in a strange shape, was a grotesque form. It looked human, perhaps; except that it was bent so strangely, the arms and legs flung off in all directions. The mouth was open; the eyes stared glassily.
"Like a machine that's run down," Peters murmured.
Olham smiled feebly. "Well?" he said.
Peters looked at him. "I can't believe it. You were telling the truth all the time."
"The robot never reached me," Olham said. He took out a cigarette and lit it. "It was destroyed when the ship crashed. You were all too busy with the war to wonder why an out-of-the-way wood would suddenly catch fire and burn. Now you know."
He stood smoking, watching the men. They were dragging the grotesque remains from the ship. The body was stiff, the arms and legs rigid.
"You'll find the bomb now," Olham said. The men laid the body on the ground. Peters bent down.
"I think I see the corner of it." He reached out, touching the body.
The chest of the corpse had been laid open. Within the gaping tear something glinted, something metal. The men stared at the metal without speaking.
"That would have destroyed us all, if it had lived," Peters said. "That metal box there."
There was silence.
"I think we owe you something," Peters said to Olham. "This must have been a nightmare to you.
If you hadn't escaped, we would have --" He broke off.
Olham put out his cigarette. "I knew, of course, that the robot had never reached me. But I had no way of proving it. Sometimes it isn't possible to prove a thing right away. That was the whole trouble. There wasn't any way I could demonstrate that I was myself."
"How about a vacation?" Peters said. "I think we might work out a month's vacation for you. You could take it easy, relax."
"I think right now I want to go home," Olham said.
"All right, then," Peters said. "Whatever you say."
Nelson had squatted down on the ground, beside the corpse. He reached out toward the glint of metal visible within the chest.
"Don't touch it," Olham said. "It might still go off. We better let the demolition squad take care of it later on."
Nelson said nothing. Suddenly he grabbed hold of the metal, reaching his hand inside the chest.
He pulled.
"What are you doing?" Olham cried.
Nelson stood up. He was holding on to the metal object. His face was blank with terror. It was a metal knife, an Outspace needle-knife, covered with blood.
"This killed him," Nelson whispered. "My friend was killed with this." He looked at Olham. "You killed him with this and left him beside the ship."
Olham was trembling. His teeth chattered. He looked from the knife to the body. "This can't be Olham," he said. His mind spun, everything was whirling. "Was I wrong?" He gaped.
"But if that's Olham, then I must be --"
He did not complete the sentence, only the first phrase. The blast was visible all the way to Alpha Centauri.
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