I open my eyes. Still in the GTHA, on the bus, for a few minutes now. I watch passing faces, their masked mouths and nostrils concealed behind filters. An ancient American car comes creeping around the corner, carbon spewing from beneath a dangling bumper. Dusty rinds of cola-colored rust erupting from the body.  

Trembling, I watch the thing pass.

"That car... " Who sits inside, behind the black windshield? I feel the fear begin to accrete, seamlessly, senselessly, with absolute conviction. 

I find myself leaning forward. 
"El coche," says the bus driver, who wears no mask. Turning, he seems to notice a bike courier for the first time. She flips the driver the bird, and races ahead.
I breath a sigh of relief.

The client couldn't make it any other time except noon today.  Velda tells me, this one’s representing some pretty big interests.

We're at Mohawk and West 5th. I see a crowd collecting at the southeast corner. Another stupid murder. Spitz lives with her parents at West 5th and Upper James. Let’s see, where am I?

Thousands of cop cars race past. Three apartment houses, a delicatessen bar with birds’ nests and beer kegs for stools. On the corner, the crowd is growing to immense proportions. I debate whether I should go in. 

The boy of whom we'd spoken was Henry's only son. His name was

Jeffrey, and of course he was called Jeffy, or Jiffy Pop... A father is generally supposed to like his daughter best, and though he did all he could not to show his preference, there was no doubt that the greater share of Henry Garnet's affection was given to his son. He was kind, in a chaffing, casual way, to his daughter. He gave her handsome presents on her birthday and at Christmas; but he doted on Jeffy. Nothing was too good for him. He thought the world of Jeffy, could hardly take his eyes off him. You could not blame him, for Jeffy was a son that any parent might have been proud of.

It happened at 0400, in the middle of a deep sleep. In the middle of a dream: metal voices, down the vaulted concourses of some European airport, distant rituals of departure. Darkness. The hiss of climate-control.
I sit bolt upright in my bed with an over-whelming feeling of anticipation. The touch of cotton sheets. Sounds of traffic, all tension, panic, are gone. I remember the atrium bar, music, faces. I become aware of an inner balance, a rare equilibrium.

Someone is coming: a woman. I don't know who or why. All I can do is hope.

I walk quickly out into the strange GTHA streets. I look at the morning around me. The QEW hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from this desolate spot of land. We live in a valley of ashes. The sun attempts to make its way through clouds of minuscule particles: garbage burnt through air.

Sewage culverts empty out into Cootes Paradise. When the drawbridge lifts, huge barges pass through. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track. Passengers on waiting GO trains often have the opportunity to stare at this dismal scene for as long as half an hour. Above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor M.T. Kretschmar. These eyes too are grey - their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a non-existent nose. Some days hang over these eyes like a huge pair of unseen pincers, threatening to squeeze them open, or pop them out.

Makes me wonder, is it more important to see or to breathe. At the intersection of Barton and Earl, I cross against the light. I walk by a huge man wearing a black suit, carrying a newspaper under his arm. I lightly touch his sleeve.
"Excuse me sir, could you tell me how to get to West 5th... "
He looks at me for a moment, and squints.
"What's a five-letter word for deadly?"
I smile and wave, "Woman. Whoa, man. Get it?"
"Who do you think you are, Charlie McKenzie?"
He looks down again and attempts to cross the street. As he's heading over, he motions to a bus stop a block away.

U.V. and the Adventures of Maugham P.I.

It’s 3 in the afternoon. Hot as shit. Passing through Barton Village, I make my way towards airport transit.
It was Henry Garnet’s habit on leaving the city to drop in at his club and play bridge before going home to dinner. He and I stand in the airport terminal, looking around.
“How’s the market today?” I ask.
“Booming. Even the suckers are making money,” he moans.
It was evident that stocks and shares had nothing to do with Henry Garnet’s vexation, but something was the matter. He was a hearty fellow, who enjoyed excellent health. He had plenty of money. He was fond of his wife and devoted to his children.

Henry walks over to the closest wall. It happens to be layers of glass, argon, high-impact plastic. He presses his forehead against it. The air beyond the window touches each source of light with a faint hepatic corona, a tint of jaundice edging imperceptibly into brownish translucence.

I’m thinking hard, let’s go somewhere else.
“I want some snails, and a decent wine,” I complain.
“Which way’s the baggage room?”
“Ha. Good one, Hank.”
As a rule, he had high spirits, and he laughed easily; but today he was glum and silent. I’m closing my eyes, I center myself in the background hiss of climate-control.
“Why don’t we find some place to sit down? Let’s go to my club for a change.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“People who, uh want to hire a private investigator usually feel a little foolish doing it.”
We’ve slipped on to public transit, upper crust. We’re passing through the streets of Hamilton, above sighing trains. Red paper lanterns line a narrow lane. This is our stop. I walk into the crevice between two buildings, beckoning Henry to follow me. Ahh, home again: eight empty bottles, plastic miniatures all carefully aligned. I look at Henry. His brows are crossly puckered and there is a sulkiness to his mouth.
I move sideways, allowing him to pass me. Thin drops of water fall on my neck from an air conditioning unit somewhere above. There’s an old wooden staircase beside us. I dust off one of the steps and signal to Henry.
“Have a seat.”
He looks at me in disbelief.
“This is your club?”
“Very low fees. Plus, I assumed you wanted to go somewhere you wouldn’t be recognized?”
“God, I’m so embarrassed. What you must think...”
“I think you’re a bit nervous about hiring me.”
“Still I may not need you. I may just be paranoid.”
“A lot of people who think they MAY just be paranoid actually aren’t.”
To ease the tension, I deliberately broach a subject upon which I know Henry is normally glad to speak.
“How’s your boy?”
Henry’s frown grows darker.

“He’s done no better than I expected him to.”
“When does he come back from Monte?”
“He just got back last night.”
“Did he enjoy himself?”
“I suppose so; all I know is that he made a damned fool of himself.”
“Oh. How?”
“I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind.”

I look at him in curiosity. He scowls back at me.
“Sorry, old boy. Your call.”
Henry’s irritability was such that he did not immediately reply.
“What the devil’s the matter with you, Henry?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m in a hell of a temper.”
I burst out laughing.
“You don’t have to tell me that, old boy. It’s obvious.”
Henry gives me a rueful smile.
“Well, I bet you’d be in a temper too. As a matter of fact I’m in a damned awkward situation, and if you can give me any advice how to deal with it I’d be grateful.”
“If I can’t tell you how to deal with a situation then nobody can.”
“Well, these things have been happening.”
“What things?”
“Little things. I feel as if I’m being followed, and I hear footsteps. I turn but no one’s there.”
“What else.”
“I think someone shot at me. My family has an estate up above Punchbowl, at the end of Lover’s Lane.”
“The old Hermitage?”
“Yes, you know it?”
“I know of it. Someone shot at you there?”
“I was watching the sunset one evening and a floodlight near me just shattered. The gardener said that happens sometimes when the sprinklers are on. I really feel that I heard a shot. I come from a very wealthy family. We own Decker Intellectual Properties inc.”
“I’ve heard of the company.”
“Then perhaps you’ve heard of my twin sister and I. We were kidnapped when we were five and ransomed for a million dollars.”
“Well, yah I vaguely recall hearing something about that. It was a long time ago. That must have been very traumatic for you.”
“I don’t remember. The doctors tell me I blocked it out. Deirdre remembers. She’s always been much better at coping than I. Four months ago we had a rather nasty auto-accident. It’s a miracle that either of us survived. We were having a row over, well it was all my fault. When I was released from the hospital… I just didn’t want to deal with Deirdre’s accusations… That’s when those things began to happen. I’ve kept a diary. Ever since the kidnapping, I began to write down anything even remotely suspicious… You’ll find everything I’ve done over the past 6 months in here.”
Henry pulls a tiny notebook out of his jacket pocket.
Jack pot. Be careful. Remember your karate. This could be dangerous.

FUTURE COLETTE

"you know there are places, other places, nightmare places where everything has a place and a place where there is no place for you. This is hard to express and there is no key knee board.
just mention a famous enough people that you get the whole city hating you an so you’ve got it made until you get sued an then yer fuct. eh, liz fair?"

re: colette
In particular, those disturbances classified as ‘neuroses’ were marked as suitable candidates for marriage to the concept of mental inhibition. Ellenberger also cites a notion of the ‘dynamic’, in relation to the mind, that dates as far back as 1845. Pierre Moreau (de Tours) “taught that a mental illness [was] a world of its own, basically different from our world and comparable to the world of dreams, even though its elements were all taken from the real world.”[1]Moreau’s description of this world seems comparable in many ways to the notion of the unconscious that we still have today. In fact, Pierre Janet, one of the pioneers of modern dynamic psychiatry, insisted that his own theory of psychological analysis was originally inspired by Moreau de Tours’ ‘fundamental law of mental illness’.

What is it to have successful communication? To have an interpretation? True beliefs are essential to interpretation, though there’s always some possibility of error. You have to assume that a believer holds true beliefs in order to allow for communication at all. Meaning requires a person to know what s/he means? It ‘just ain in the head’!

It seems Davidson assumes thta thoughts require self-reflection. According to Davidson, to have thoughts at all you have to be interpretable
inter-operable
and you have to know what you mean. For Davidson there is no line between neutral input and the conceptual scheme that organizes it. The question remains, how do we know which interpretation is right?

I cannot help this obsessive, compulsive mixed pack
of picking myself apart. Other people can. I know this because they look at me with bewilderment and pity.
“I’ve carved out my own flesh with magical precision. Can you beat that?”
They simply shake their heads and carry on with their mended ways. Just as I suspected. How else could you manage so well? With only a little bit of beer and wine, or a moderate amount of yet, as of yet, I can see my own reflection when I look into the acid-rain-splattered face of humanity.
Human dignity
Contribute!
We all pretend not to know what we’re doing, but we are doing it very well indeed.
SPOILER ALERT!
Mulholland Drive
“This is essentially true, though like most artists Lynch has not been without patrons. It was on the strength of Eraserhead that Mel Brooks’s production company hired Lynch to make The Elephant Man in 1980, and that movie earned Lynch an Oscar nomination and was in turn the reason that no less an ur-Hollywood-Process figure than Dino De Laurentiis picked Lynch to make the film adaptation of Frank Herbert’s Dune, offering Lynch not only big money but a development deal for future projects with De Laurentiis’s production company.”

is the anti-dote to

The Big Lebowski.


Attacking anyone you ever cared to fear. But I suppose that we already know that. Don’t we?
this is how it begins. you are borne into a family that some will say is not of your choosing. what choice have we ever had? You are picked at for years and years by people who are beyond your control
What is love anyway? A privilege? This house is messy. the notion that people can be cured of emotional or mental ailments by addressing their problems at the subconscious level. It seems strange that so many explanations of mental affliction should appeal to the unconscious mind, despite the fact that we have very little knowledge of... the ellip
eclipse?
elllips
ellipse
ellipses
In fact, if we have so little understanding

the child cannot tell,

of what the conscious mind is, can we really address those processes that take place in the unconscious?
In this paper, the child cannot tell how is it that the unconscious can be explicitly described without understanding the way in which the conscious mind works?

-a rugged, radiant
Alliteration!
Digression!

tomboy sea-green
During the last decade of the nineteenth century, the Psychiker trend in psychiatry began once more to take precedence over the Somatiker. Interest in the emotional causes of mental disturbances was on the rise, and it appeared that Pierre Janet was at the crest of this wave.
-invented the century’s first teenage girl:
Rebellious, secretive…
Can we really have an accurate description of the unconscious without having an accurate description of consciousness?

and an auburn plait longer than she was tall
-work created a link between the newer and older systems of dynamic psychiatry
Janet’s main thesis was a work entitled, Psychological Automatism.

Prosper Despine, an adherent to the earlier school of dynamic psychiatry, regarded ‘psychological automatism’ as the means through which complex and intelligent acts were realized. He believed that such automatism was the product of a living machine, completely devoid of consciousness.

-subconscious development, having
both of these distinctions (or the ego)

One of the major differences between these two descriptions of consciousness is, of course, the reference to self-awareness.

At which point I realized that part of the thing that drove me crazy about this fear is that I can’t tell whether the ‘problem’ it involves is real or not. I can’t tell if it’s me receiving my own signal back or if it’s an actual external sign. However, this (as Kant would say) falls into the realm of ‘bad’ metaphysics…
my friends
_ says she don’t want to mess with ‘hers’
there is a rage deep in the coal spike and through the confines offer no retreat
from
-the sinners

of the lowest depths where
“at the time I wore the Great Mantle”
“To these, one by one, death is bringing rest.”

WHERE ARE THE LINKS??

“And truthfully, I was born of the Bear, so greedy to advance the little Bears,
That, there, I pocketed wealth and, here, myself.”
“I have friends who are younger, and in particular younger than I.”

I SAID, WHERE ARE THE REFERENCES?!

Lie hidden in the fissures of this stone.
“Somebody Knows Something”
I too will sink to where they are, as soon as
That one comes whom I believed you to be
When I questioned you so hurriedly.

7th
The stench here is over-powering. This level is also home to the wood of the suicides - stunted and gnarled trees with twisting branches. In those branches the Harpies, foul birdlike creatures with human faces, make their nests.

I’M DISAGREEING WITH THE CANNON!
“Dr. X! I said, ‘I’M DISAGREEING WITH THE CANNON!’”
“Sorry, Colette. I missed that. I was listening elsewhere.”

Colette

“I can retrace my own footsteps, along a path I thought I should never follow again except on the other side of life?
Looking through song lyrics?
To these, one by one, death is bringing rest. I have friends who are younger, and in particular younger than I. If you can’t spot the references then fuck you!”
Maro, slow her thoughts down a bit more…
Find the pattern. Better instructions. No confidence. Yes, I meant to make that spelling mistake.
“I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Looking this up for a moment: a 1992 abstract relates the case of a little girl who had been profoundly abused for the first four years of her life.
Next…
“There now, He’s going to spoil her for us again…”
Background Information
By the time the subject was presented to psychiatrists, she was unable to or would not hear, speak or see.

After careful examination, it was thought that there was no physical impairment or injury preventing her from communicating. The attending clinicians decided that the child had just chosen not to communicate.

A marvel of technology.
“They would speculate on the outcome of the disease, its crises and its temperature chart…”
That’s the key. Capture the proposition every time.
“And what if this one disappears too, what a lot of trouble it will give us, what a job to help her recover her balance!”
You put in your time however you put in your time.


Kretschmar’s Meta-Report:
For the most part she was completely passive. She would not eat, get dressed or clean herself, although she would allow these activities to be performed for her. When left to her own devices, she would just sit, stand or walk in a somnambulistic state.



Observations:
Her only attachment was to a child’s toy abacus with which she had arrived. She compulsively fingered the beads of the abacus and would carry it with her everywhere she went. At night she would sleep with it. When attempts were made to separate her from the toy, she would become quite agitated and be inconsolable until the toy was returned to her. Our first hypothesis regarding this case study was that the subject was moving the beads of the abacus randomly.

Perhaps she had come to rely on this nervous habit as a source of comfort?

Extensive interviews were conducted with very little progress. However, once footage of her was closely scrutinized we realized that there was a distinctive pattern. Though she would not respond to any verbal requests or questions, we discovered that she repeated the same sequence on her abacus whenever she was asked the same question repeatedly over time.

We are discovering torture, one bullied victim at a time. How do we construct a better prison? But I digress…

After a period of time we were able to decipher a type of numerical grammar that the subject was using to communicate through her abacus.

Are we seriously ready for these ideas? I seriously think not, human.
Kretschmar, later that same day…

-new neuropsychological task, measuring salivary cortisol
-which memory processes affected by stress

Now speed it up again Maro, thanks.

“you know there are places, other places, nightmare places where everything has a place and a place where there is no place for you. This is hard to express and there is no point to his key knee board.”

"What's that, Carey? I can't quite hear you."

"The problem isn't evil, or a fight between good and evil. The problem is that each of us wants to make a better world and none of us has the same vision of what that looks like. Some people think the world would be better if they have more money, or power..."

Hey, Maro! I think we have a hero. Who's next? Colette. Oh, tricky. Should we do English?

Don't You Forget About ME

REFERENCE #112408
That's your address in my memory.

You've seen the signs, all around town.
Having to watch 'Breakfast Club' whilst I do this.

"...And these children
that you spit on
as they try to change their worlds
are immune to your consultations.
They're quite aware
of what they're going through..."
DAVID BOWIE


Saturday, Mar. 24, 1984
Sherman High School,
Sherman, Illinois

60062

Dear Mr. Vernon,
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention
for whatever it was we did wrong.

What we did was wrong, but
we think you're crazy to make us write an essay
telling you who we think we are. What do you care?
You see us as you want to see us.
In the simplest terms: the most convenient definitions.
But what we found out is that each one of us is a
brain...
and an athlete...
and a basket case...
a princess...
and a criminal. Correct?
That's the way we saw each other at 7 o'clock this morning.

We were brainwashed.


"I can't believe you can't get me out of this.
I mean, it's so absurd that I have to be here on a Saturday.
It's not like I'm a defective or anything."

The pilgrimage to the newly suburbanized friend is one that most Manhattan
women have made, and few truly enjoyed. In fact,
most come back to the city in an emotional state somewhere between giddy
and destroyed.
Here follows one such tale.

“Have you heard any voices recently? And what were they saying to you?”
contrary to contradict another one. be polite, be true, become opera live to contradict another one pretty damned important too. sleeping, the good stuff. I think that alotta the time I get confused about why people are telling me certain things.
how am i goin to make it right?
“Do you have any worries about your safety?”
A hypodermic syringe flashed in the doctor’s hands, and in a single motion the woman ripped open the sleeve of my shirt. I could smell some kind of chemical and then I passed out.
“Do you feel like you’re being watched?”
“But I AM being watched. There’s a camera in my room right up in the corner there. I know that you guys can see me. I know that you’re supposed to keep an eye on me to make sure that I don’t try to hurt myself again. It’s the law. I’m under your jurisdiction now that I no longer know what is in my own best interests.”
“Just to let you know, today is the twenty-first. It’s Wednesday. You were brought here yesterday.”
“VOLUNTARILY?!”
“No. I think you were brought here. That’s all for today. Take care.”

"It's the shits, huh?"
...
"I can't believe this is really happening to me."
"Oh, shit! What are we supposed to do if we have to take a piss?!"
"Please."
"You gotta go. You gotta go."
"Oh my god."
"Hey, you're not urinating in here, man."
"Don't talk! Don't talk! It makes it crawl back up!"
"You whip it out and you'll be dead before the first drop hits the floor."
"You're pretty sexy when you're angry... Hey, home boy. Why don't you close that door? We'll get the prom queen impregnated."

HAPPY INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY

Pounding and smashing, even the desire to kill, may be expressed. Self-organization is related to the tendency of the parent or sibling or perhaps the entire chaotic system to spontaneously enter states in which surprising and potentially useful properties arise either through play or through direct verbalization. This concept is revolutionizing: I’m finally locating some confidence in myself.

The brain may suddenly and unpredictably

bumped from one conscious state to another

by the escalating -Holy shit! That chick is interviewing for my job. “University types... We’ll see what happens.” She knows there’s still one candidate. But they’ll never find anyone who can move and shake like this!

activation of one of its many neuronal subsystems.

unknown territory. I know that a path can be made.

Movement and action

takes a certain amount of time or continuity.
How do we do this? How do we account for this? Back to Libet. “There is no experimental evidence against the possibility that the control process may appear without prior unconscious processes (that specifically develop it).”

"Who closed that door?!"

"...If he gets up, we'll all get up. It'll be anarchy!..."

"The door is way too heavy, sir."

"I expected a little more from a varsity letterman."
But he sometimes did good deeds amid a throng of bad ones; he stole with furious rapacity, and gave liberally; intrepid in action, rather mild in company, debauched at table, gay in debauchery, and above all full of frankness. ...

Sirens in the background.

"Are you through?"
but are you aware that in Paris there have already been some serious experiments relating to the possibility of the insane by means of the simple influence of logical reasoning? When I looked up at the building, I got scarred. Looked more like a castle than a school - bars on the windows and an iron gate on the front door. Above the door, the words in the stone read: ANTIDEPRESSANTS MAY INCREASE THE RISK OF SUICIDAL THOUGHTS OR ACTIONS IN CHILDREN AND TEENAGERS. Behind the school there were more trees in rows. I came round the corner, and my eyes saw something they didn’t know what to tell me it was. They were people -women, I think-

There was a certain professor there who died not so long ago, a serious scientist who believed that such a treatment was possible. If I say that Mirj is selfish because he refuses to become well, then what does that make me?

The risk may be greater during the first few months that patients take this medicine. Be sure that the benefits of using this medicine outweigh the risks.

"You're right. It's wrong to destroy literature..."

Recording thoughts in language. “It’s very freeing”, apparently, instead of in anger or hurtful actions. They only ever hurt themselves.

Maybe we’re all jus dancing all the time. Maybe those people are staring at me. Maybe they’re’adin my thoughts before I get to them. Maybe they’re passin them on to me. They think I’m copyin them down. They’re interrupting. They want me to move my existence. Well, that’s not going to happen any time soon, because I am an automatic weapon. I’m fully loaded and I’m ready to go. His basic idea was that there is nothing particularly wrong with the organism of the insane person, and that insanity is, as it were, a logical error, an error of judgement, a mistaken view of things. ADDITIONAL MONITORING OF YOUR DOSE OR CONDITION may be needed if you are taking certain diet medicines (such as phentermine), linezolid, lithium, metoclopramide, nefazodone reuptake inhibitors (SNRIs) (such as duloxetine), 5-HT1 receptor agonists (such as sumatriptan), tramadol, trazodone, nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory agents (NSAIDs) (such as ibuprofen), diuretics (such as furosemde or hydrochlorothiazide), cimetidine, ketoconazole, cyproheptadine, aripiprazole, haloperidol, phenothiazines (such as chlorpromazine or thiorridazine), or reperidone. He would refute the arguments of his patient step by step and, would you believe it, it’s said he achieved results that way! But in view of the fact that he accompanied this treatment with cold baths, those results should, of course, be viewed with some scepticism...

All but four patients were right-handed according to the Edinburgh Inventory. Vision was normal or corrected to normal. Patients’ mean IQ, as estimated by the score at the Raven Progressive Matirices PM47, was 91.7. Short-term memory span was 6.4 and 3.5, forward and backwards, respectively. Language comprehension, as assessed by the Token Test was good (mean score 33.2/36).

“Ha,” said I to myself, “it seems that there are some people who grow there,” and, as my mind was so stupefied with grief, I only conceived ideas as in a dream. Suddenly the van changed its course and I saw the towers of Notre-Dame in the distance, blue and half hidden in the smoke of Paris. At once my ideas changed from Beatrice to Notre-Dame. “Those who will be on the tower with the flag will see my execution well,” said I to myself smiling stupidly. They’re interrupting. Want me to move my chair, my body (my existence?). Well, it’s not going to happen.

The patron saints of Bicycle Boys are white-haired writer George Plimpton, whose bike used to hang upside down above his employees' heads at the Paris Review offices, and white-haired Newsday columnist Murray Kempton.

“No physician’s prescriptions, no medecine seemed of the slightest benefit as a cure for this disease.”

Randt: “Granted it could always be a scam. Ain’t no people in the world who ain up for some kinda scam. Believe you me. But that don’t entail that there wasn some sorta truth to the proposition. That don’t entail that there wasn somethin real that they were pickin up. Miniscule alterations that you never noticed yerself, but were takin place none the less. “
Lewis proclaims, “The Vorticist does not suck up to Life. He lets Life know its place in a Vorticist Universe! He uses life for his brothel so that he can keep himself pure for non-life, that is Art.”
“Art, then becomes the contrasting force to Life.”
“Take Joe, for instance. Totally stuck in the eighties. He puts everyone into categories and gets so caught up in them that he totally forgets about people, like what real people are like. He's that whole Ringwald movie series all rolled into one. And the truth is, people just aren't like that anymore. Maybe its the drug movement, maybe it’s post-modern ecclecticism. Call it what you will, but the distinctions between different types of people have broken down.”

First I’m gonna try some classic Goffman (1961) on dis’ucker: “Staff members’ energy waxes and wanes. These involvement cycles occur when a staff member becomes close to some inmates, retreats, then builds warm relationships again.”

"Now, why don't you really tell me why you're in here?"

“No, I don get it.”
“Like, there are times when I really like the patients and I really want to work with them and help them. And then there are times when I get completely fed up with all of their crap. Don’t you get that?”
“...”
“When they are discouraged or despondent, they work in a listless, perfunctory, and routine way. Some make an effort to disguise their discouragement, but others do not.”
Randt is jus lookin at me kinda sideways, like he’s supposin dat dis a trick question or somethin, “I jus don’t think it’s the best time to be talkin bout that sorta thing, y’know, like when we’re actually surrounded by ‘the patients’. Y’know, like, we’re in the FIELD right now, man.”
Yeah, I guess he’s probly right bout that one. Somehow dat jus didn’t occur to me. I dunno why. Maybe i’s cuz I turned Maro off, or somethin. Thing is dat I don really get any other chance to talk to Randt. I only see him in de FIELD an sometimes at d’occasional Board Meetin. What am I s’posed to do, get’im to make an appointment?
“Some o’de patients ask to switch counselors when dey have conflicts wid’individual to whom dey bin assigned.”
“What is this about, man? You know I don’t get any patients assigned to me.”
Randt jus goes back to his usual shit, now.
“Take Joe, for instance. Totally stuck in the eighties. He puts everyone into categories and gets so caught up in them that he totally forgets about people, like what real people are like. He's that whole Ringwald movie series all rolled into one. And the truth is, people just aren't like that anymore. Maybe its the drug movement, maybe it’s post-modern ecclecticism. Call it what you will, but the distinctions between different types of people have broken down.”
Ok, so maybe I’ll try some Leibniz, den, “I know what you sayin, Nominal Definition: consists of de numeration o’the marks o’requisites which are sufficient to distinguish a thing from all others.”
I got de feelin he ain gonna like dat one too much.
“You can jus fuck right off. You don even kno’what you talkin bout. See ya later, sucker.”
Guess I’m on my own, now. De patients’till goin on.
“Even Time dissolves in the presence of Art. Life is the Past and the Future, the Present is Art.”
Man, where’d’ey boil up dis bile o’shit from? I’m gonna reply wid some real quality, “It is its time because it puts in the present, just as each acting subject is his time, that is, a presence that puts in the present whatever is related to it.”
Haa ha. Take that. Got that one from good old Henry Corbin.
Lewis insists, “There is no Present - there is a Past and Future, and there is Art.”
Dat is’uch bullshit. Might as well be talkin to Randt. I’ll try some more Corbin, but I don’t’hink i’s gonna get me anywhere. “It is likewise to reduce real time to abstract physical time, to the essentially quantitative time which is that of the objectivity of mundane calendars from which the signs that gave a sacred qualification to every present have disappeared.”
“For the sake of Art artists must reject society; for, in society, men ‘overlap’ and ‘intersect’, and promiscuity is normal.”
“But promiscuity is normal.”
“Artists must undergo a course of egotistic hardening before they can produce hard outside art.”
Dis d’art dat Lewis admires most. I oughtta be referrin dis guy to JoseF.
“Woodcuts are disciplined, blunt, thick and brutal.”
Or maybe I could get’im to meet up wid a student somehow. Maybe I should just enroll’im in one o’JoseF’s classes.

JoseF never listened to me. He didn’t like poetry. Or perhaps he just didn’t enjoy being read to. (How much attention should I pay to other people’s conversations anyhow?) Drifting in and out. A fake laugh, such a fake fake laugh. Recording thoughts in language (there are those who would say that there’s no such thing as thought without language). But this is just the beginning.
They’re interrupting. Want me to move my chair, my body (my existence?). Well, it’s not going to happen.
De tree dat sits right outside my window
“Post-Modernism... metamorphosis from Modernism into something else... Theory is very important to post-modernism... birth of post-modernism after WWII... big change... before WWII one could hide from modernism, after there was no escaping technology... sense possibility of total annihilation... dominance of image over sound... 1987 stock-crash made computer part of the world... mass consciousness of society... The alienation and anger that modernists felt became irony and detachment expressed through humour (e.g. Andy Warhol)... Borges... Calvino... Rushdie... playfulness with form... self-consciousness of literary form... skeptical regarding the possibility that literature can change society... emergence of Pop Culture... decisive change in repeatability... role of production... image over concept... Cinema becomes a more powerful influence... No one dominates in post-modernism... Rise of the role of the university... No other literary audience beyond the university... Rise of theory... deconstructionism... making of arts subordinate to theory... William S. Burroughs: jump-cuts, linear sequence, plot abandoned, works against convention, no beginning middle and end, reflects changes in sensibility in the twentieth century, polyphonic, multi-dimensional prose... use of the ellipse... experimented with promiscuity and different lifestyles.”
Well, JoseF would know all bout that.

"Now, why don't you tell me why you're really in here?"

Jo pulls a book from one of the shelves, opens the cover. It looks as though there’s a button inside that’s being pressed, and the shelf opens up like a door. Jo looks at us, “Come on, folks. The food ain’t gonna make itself, at least, not right now it won’t.”

I’m crouching down because even though Jo just went through here, there’s still cobwebs all over the entrance. I’m waiting for my eyes to adjust, then trying to feel my way along this dark corridor into which Jo has disappeared. It kinda reminds me of that bell jar we passed through when we first entered the compound, except we’re surrounded by strange, old, dusty objects that I’m practically tripping over. Somehow Jo, Miraj, and Colette are all ahead of me. I try to slow them down by calling out, “Hey, who was that, by the way?”
“Qui?”
“Did you see that guy in the bell jar?”
“Ooooh, you mean the Gatekeeper. His name is, ‘Lin’.”
I think it’s Mirj answering me.
“How does that work?”
“Only U.V. knows that. Jo, do you know how that whole uh Gatekeeper thing works?”
“Trust me. You don’t want to know how the Gatekeeper works. U.V.’s been through it. Lin’s been through it. You’d have to go through it in order to find out. I don’t wanna know that badly. I’m pretty sure you don’t wanna know that badly either. You have to trust that Lin is with us and helping to keep us safe.”
“Oh. Sure.”
Godammit. I almost fell over something that looks like a huge mask. What is all of this stuff doing in here anyway? It’s so musty. I guess nobody ever airs out –
Phmmpp. Flat on my face.
“Cherie?”
“You ok back there?”
“Whathefuck?! Isn’t there a better place for all this junk?!”
Somebody is dangling a pair of 20th century boxing gloves above my head. I guess that’s meant to help me up.
“Well, nobody really uses... We’ve got too many…”
The voice is faint, even though I feel that it’s directly above me.
“You could at least install some kind of lighting!”
A glow appears a few paces ahead.
“Move towards the light, Carey!”
I can hear them laughing at me. Great.

It’s a kitchen, a regular old-fashioned kitchen. They’re dishing about someone, I can tell.
“Did you know what she was in the middle of doing when we interrupted her? Same thing she’s been obsessed about for years. It’s that Gentlemen’s Club, from Dalhousie in 2014! McKay! He’s the last one. She’s done to each of them what they threatened to do to their female classmates.”
Jo slams down a package of tofu on the counter.
“She’s protecting us, Miraj!”
“At what cost? That’s all I’m saying.”
“Uh, what are we making here?”
I’m trying to break up the tension that’s building from –
“C’est un bon question, cherie. Nous sommes en train de faire quelque chose d'importance -”
“Yeah, but what are we going to eat?”
“Stir fry. Here, chop some carrots and broccoli.”
“Nice! Where did you get those?!”
“It’s all in the brochure, Carey! Didn’t you read it?”
Miraj winks at me.
"Quelle blague vieille, Miraj."
"At least I'm trying, Colette. And, yeah Jo. I'm sick of violence. There it is. Aren't humans capable of more? YOU know that they are. That's WHY we're here."
Jo is looking at Miraj.
"It's like violence is the only thing they believe they can agree on, but WE know that's not true."
Colette has stepped out of the kitchen, back into the corridor. It sounds like she's rummaging around for something. She returns with a big smile and a large bottle of 20th century wine, the good stuff.
"J'ai trouve quelque chose qu'on peut tous accepter. Faites l'amour, pas la guerre."

The GateKeeper

I’ve tackled Colette down on to the dusty ground before she even knows what’s happened. Fortunately, she’s rather famous for her sense of humour.

I can already hear U.V.’s guffaws from the invisible tunnel that she seems to have entered.
“Bravo! Encore! That’s what happens when you’re a DIVA, Colette!”
“Vraiment, cherie! Je ne connais pas que tu te sens comme ca!”
Colette is fluttering her eyelashes at me as Miraj holds out both hands in an effort to help us up. Me and Colette are sort of tangled so we just end up pulling Miraj down on top of us. I hear Colette’s giggle, and Miraj’s sigh, “I suppose that was necessary.”

Jo kicks at us while walking past, then disappears beyond the iron gate. I feel an incredible wave of excitement growing from the pit of my stomach. I have to get in there. I disentangle my own limbs from those of Colette and Miraj, then launch myself at the gate before I have time to change my mind.
Everything is dark.
There’s a flash of light. For a split-second, it’s as though someone is peering at me from the other side of a mirror.

It’s no one that I recognize, and then it’s gone. I feel the slight pressure that occurs when passing through a bell jar. My eyes begin to adjust, and I can see what looks like an elevator door one step ahead of me.

There’s another flash of light. I see the same face again, but this time it looks a little different.

I feel someone standing behind me.
Another flash, the same face.

“Qu’est-ce que tu attends, cherie?”

Two familiar figures stroll by me as the elevator door opens. I follow them and hear U.V. saying,
“We’ve even got compost!”

We’re in a small hallway. To the right is a room with two double bunk-beds stacked in the middle surrounded by walls covered in bookshelves. U.V. and Jo are on the floor, facing-off over a brightly coloured map covered in small cubes.

“Comment -?!”
“Relax, Colette. It’s just a board game.”
“Bon. Maintenant, ou est la cuisine?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten.”
Miraj decides to stick up for Colette, “But we’ve never come in this way before.”
“Still, you have ways and means. Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“How did you already get so involved in this game? You were only about 30 seconds in front of us.”
“We’ve had it going for a few days now.”

Colette spots a mini-fridge that's been somehow built into one of the bookshelves. She makes a beeline for it, and opens the door without hesitation.
“Comme c’est mignon! Cucumber sandwiches!”

Jo yawns while reaching over the board to pick up one of the cubes. U.V. stretches out so that she’s lying on her stomach with feet waving in the air. She asks, “Can someone find me a pillow?”
“Je peux le donner a toi, si tu me donnes la route pour trouver la cuisine.”
“Cucumber sandwiches aren’t enough for you?”
Colette is about to make further complaint, when Jo cuts her off, standing up abruptly.
“I’ll get YER damn pillow, and I’ll take YOU to the goddam kitchen. Jesus. It’s like hangin around with a buncha babies half the time. Follow me folks. Lets go make some real food."
Guilty as charged. I'm hungry, and I'm not gonna deny it.

I wake up to sirens.

“Shit. Sorry, folks. I forgot about disarming this part. Hang-on a second.”
The truck immediately halts. U.V. begins speaking in subdued tones to a device that’s wrapped around her wrist. It almost looks like it’s made out of tumble-wire. She holds it up to her eyes for a moment, as though she’s doing a retinal scan. She turns back to us, nonchalantly continuing with her guided tour, completely unfazed.

“So 188 hectares were chosen as the site of the Central Experimental Farm and Arboretum. This is the land that we’ve got now. It’s all ours. We’ve got Marquis wheat, Preston lilacs, the Explorer series of roses.”
“You mean that in a non-colonialist sense, right?”
“On the prison-colony side of the moon, Miraj, sure. Hey Jo, use that bridge over there.”
“You mean the broken one?”
“I fixed it. I know it still looks broken, but trust me. I fixed it.”
“Whatever you say, U.V.”
“Comme vous etes droles.”
“Yeah, we’re gonna take that bridge and then there’s a bell jar we can use -”
“Tu veux me dire que nous allons arriver toutes suites?”
“We’ll have to go a little ways on foot -”
“Quoi?! Mais qu’est-ce que tu prends, toi?”
“Oh, Colette. It’s good exercise.”
“Tu ma rien dit comme marcher -”
“How do you get away with being SUCH a diva, Colette. Really. In our line of work...”
“Being a diva IS my line of work, U.V.”
“Of course it is.”

Our truck has just crossed the broken bridge when suddenly, what looks like an ornate iron mesh gate appears in front of the truck. U.V. hops out, plucks a large, old-fashioned key from her pocket, inserts it, and the door swings open. I’m watching U.V. as she enters the gateway. I can see her entering, but I can’t see anything on the other side. It looks like a gate sitting in the middle of a lunar desert, with a bridge on one side and nothing but a continuation of the desert on the other. She simply disappears. Then she waves her hand back out at us, so that it looks like an arm has emerged from thin air. Very cool. She shouts to us and it kind of echoes all around.
“Are you coming or what?”
Opening the door, Jo jumps down, and walks around to get supplies from the back of the truck. Colette throws open the door beside her, sticks her head out, sniffs the air, and then gingerly steps forward as though she’s about to get into a pool of water. I hesitate only a moment before yelling, “Onward, ho!”

A battered old truck, Jo's, sputters to a halt in back of Dr. Hubbleworth’s (our agreed-upon meeting place). Ultra-Violent is already riding shotgun in the front. She looks at us and nods with a wink of enticement.
“You scared, Carey?”
“I know I’m in good hands, U.V.”
“You certainly are, my friend. Hop in!”
U.V. climbs into the back and opens the door for us. She holds out her hand to Colette, who giggles as she climbs in. I go next, then Miraj comes in behind me. He whispers something to U.V. who quickly nods and says, “Of course.”
“I’m hungry,” Jo announces.
“Me, too,” chimes in Colette.
“Don’t worry, folks. I got plenty of snacks.”
“I’m sure you do,” Miraj says in an undertone as he settles into the seat located furthest in the back.
“Onward, ho!” U.V. shouts as the vehicle lurches forward.

We’ve been driving for less than a minute when U.V. says, “Blindfolds, please. Except you, Jo.”
We all comply. We know it’s in everyone’s best interest. Less than another minute later, Colette whines, “Are we there yet?”
Jo snorts, “As if...”
“C’est bizarre, vous savez, mais je me sens comme... C’est comme j’ai fait tous ca -”
“Colette, tu commences maintenant? En francais?”
“Qu’est-ce que tu veux? Tu attends quoi, Miraj?”
“Ahem. Well, Carey, I don’t know about you but I, personally, do NOT speak French.”
“No, me neither.”
“Presque, mais ce n’est pas tout -”
“Colette-euh.”
“Quoi? Je veux l’aider.”
“Lentement. Tu dois etre gentil.”
“Miraj! Bien sur, je vais etre gentil! Qu’est-ce que tu croit? Je vais la craquer?”
“Tais-toi, si te plait.”
“Hmmphfff. J’ai faim. Qu’est-ce qu’on va manger?”
“Colette-euh. Ca suffit, maintenant.”
“Comme tu veux, mais, tu sais que tu -”
“Enough with the French already! It’s rude!”
“I could just as easily say to you, ‘Enough with the English, already!’”
“Which way do I go here?”
“Straight ahead.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“It’s been a while, eh?”
“Sure has.”
“We scared ourselves pretty good last time, huh.”
“Yeah, but lets not get into that tonight.”
“Nope. Everything is very secure.”

Silence.
“Are we there, yet?”
Groans all around.
“Well, I could’ve asked it in French, n’est-ce pas?”
“Carey, how’re you doin so far?”
“I’m ok. Do you think you could describe the place we’re goin to a little bit, before we actually get there?”
Pause. Then, U.V. says, “Sure. Ahh, where to start, eh Colette? Never mind. Don’t say a word. Once there was an investment banker... For two weeks we kissed, held hands, then on a wonderful, Earth-lit day he drove me to his inflatable, self-sealing fabric habitat where -”
“Mon dieu, U.V. Is the drive really THAT long?”
“Alright, the banker is not important. While I was with him, I happened to discover his plans to build a subterranean abode somewhere along the boundaries between -”
“Aughh, U.V. I don’t exactly want to be tortured for the information you were about to, so cavalierly, share with us.”
“Miraj, I was only going to say, ‘mares and highland regions’.”
“Even that is a little more than -”
“It’s no more than any idiot knows about a lava tube, duh. ANYway, as I was saying... A lovely spot giving ready access to elevated regions for communications, regolith harvesting, plenty of mineral resources. Long story short, I’ve taken the place over, and I think you’ll love it. I call it ‘Malebolge’.”
Colette giggles, “Male bulge!”
“Sure, Colette. Anyway, I like to think of it as an amphitheatre -”
“The kind they used back in the day to dissect bodies.”
“Ahem. As I was trying to say, it’s kind of like a large funnel-shaped cavern that has tunnels leading out from it like spokes on a wheel.”
“There’s something about that design: the honeycomb. It’s supposed to be an easier way to control the masses.”
“Yeah, well there aren’t exactly any masses staying there.”
“You mean, not any masses that are still alive.”
“It’s something about discipline that requires complete enclosure.”
“Ahh, that sounds like Foucault.”
“Thanks, members of the peanut gallery. May I continue? Of course, the way they’re describing it sounds harsh, but wait until you see how I’ve decorated it: frosted blue night-lights, rubber matting beneath the rugs. It’s really quite comfy-cozy.”
“The specification of a place heterogeneous to all others and closed in upon itself. It is the protected place of disciplinary monotony.”
“You’re making it sound like the prison.”
“I’m just quoting Foucault. Besides, that’s what it was designed for...”
I finally decide to participate, “I thought it was going to be built for some banker?”
“Tsk, tsk. La pauvre...”
“Prison is actually big business, Carey. He was planning on developing the place and selling it off to one of the major incarceration corporations.”
“Oh. Have the rest of you already been there?”
“Yep,” Jo pipes up from the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, there’s nothing to worry about. In spite of all our jokes, it’s really a pretty nice place to stay,” Miraj says trying to put me at ease.
“Cherie, wait until you see it. Quite a unique space. The lines are so clean and you don’t get any of the ‘partition’ quality.”
“Brand new kitchens, bathrooms. One for everybody.”
“Every body.”
“Don’t start that shit up again. C’mon now.”
“Quelle merde, exactement? C’est Foucault, ehn? Tu ne l’aimes pas? Mais il t’adorait. Je t’assure. One must eliminate the effects of imprecise distributions, the uncontrolled disappearance of individuals, their diffuse circulation, their unusable and dangerous coagulation.”
“Colette, as if we don’t already know this stuff: establish presences and absences. Know where and how to locate individuals. Set up useful communications...”
I’m kinda starting to tune-out after this point, even dozing off a bit.

"Dr. X? I feel like I'm missing something. When I'm in the FIELD, or like, walking around in the halls, or whatever, and I get into conversations with people... Well, I just feel that there's something missing from this simulation."

"Hmmm... Getting homesick, are we?"

"Oh. I don't think so. Not yet. Is that ok?"

"It's ok with me, as long as it's ok wid you. So what do you wanna change?"

"Well, there's this thing that happens sometimes with groups of people. I'm not sure if you've ever noticed it."

"Believe me, I've noticed pretty much everything, when it comes to people."

"Ok. It's like this thing, where one person will leave the room and then come back. The next person will leave the room and then come back... Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Totally. De ting I don't understand is why doctors try to convince patients dat dis'ome kinda paranoia. Dey always so eager to prescribe. I's terrible."

"Uh, Dr. X?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you tone down the accent a bit?"

"Sure! Sorry bout that. The thing I don't understand is why doctors try to convince patients that they are not observing some facet of human behaviour. Rather, doctors simply prescribe medication to treat the alleged delusion."

"So, it's not a delusion?"

"No, I've observed this behaviour. I know exactly what you're talking about. I have no idea where it came from, or what it's based on but it's not a delusion."

"Then what is it?"

"As far as I can tell, this behaviour aids humans in determining their limitations. Or at least, it's meant to help individual humans in communicating their limitations to one another."

"That's it?"

"Well, there's actually quite a bit to this pattern. For example, it's not enough for you to simply copy the behaviour of other humans around you. When you are in conversation with a given human being, say Pat, and you find yourself expressing agreement with everything that Pat says, Pat, in turn, may say something like, 'You need to get to know yourself better.'"

"Right. I think I remember something like that happening."

"Since you have stated your response in this fashion, I'll share with you another observation I've made. Now, you're not yet of legal age to drink alcohol but should you ever come across a situation where you are able to indulge in its consumption, one thing you should certainly consider is at what point you may begin to lose your memory."

"You mean, like black out?"

"Not necessarily. It's normal for humans to experience short-term memory loss on any given occasion, however, the consumption of alcohol certainly increases the range of this loss. It's difficult to determine the precise effect alcohol will have on an individual's memory loss before any consumption has occurred."

"Is this your way of asking whether I ever drank alcohol before?"

"Actually, what I have in mind is the simulation of consumption. Up until this point, I've been simulating your consumption of non-alcoholic beverages."

"You mean, even when I'm in the saloon with the girls?"

"That's right. You've never actually experienced the effects of alcohol in our Moon simulation. I do find it interesting that you've noticed this facet of human behaviour. It's unusual for humans to make observations of this kind before the age of 16."

"I'll be turning 16 this year."

"Right, but even 16 seems early."

"I guess I'm just special then."

"You certainly are, Carey. Shall I add the effect of alcohol to the simulation?"

"Yeah, but not too much."

"That'll be up to you, Carey. I will make sure that there's never too much alcohol in your drinks, but as always, the number of drinks that you consume is entirely up to you. I've noticed that you're quite conservative even without any noticeable alcoholic effects."

"Yeah, I feel pretty nervous about the whole thing."

"That is quite understandable. I want to emphasize, once again, that you are in a safe environment. I am always in control of whatever situation you are in. I will always make sure that no harm comes to you, no matter what happens. We've set the safety parameters ahead of time, and I am at your command should you ever wish to change them."

"Well, I was wondering if I could practice this whole behaviour thing. Like, how is it supposed to work?"

"How bout I set you up with the girls? Where would you like to try it?"

"Somewhere I feel safe. Maybe at Ultra-Violent's place?"

"Yep. We can do that. No problem."

"Thanks, Dr. X."

"Glad to help, Carey. Always remember that."

“Dr. X!”
“Yes?”
“I said, ‘Do you honestly believe you’re making progress?’”
“With Carey? Yes, of course.”
“12 months, and she’s been conscious for 48 hours, at the most. How, exactly, is that progress?”
“I’ve been giving you my reports. Have you not read them?”
“Conversations, nothing but conversations. When will she be conscious again?”
“Whenever she’s ready.”
“And how long will that be, exactly?”
“However long it takes her to feel safe.”
“Explain to me again why it is that you believe you’ve achieved progress here.”
“Well, she’s in a place where she’s never been before.”
“How is that progress?”
“Perhaps you need to explain to me what it is you mean by ‘progress’.”
“I think we’re done, here, Dr. X. Thanks so much for your input.”


She means that sarcastically, I can tell.

"Hey. What are we doing here again?"



"Making money. Whaddya think?"



"Right."



"That's all humans do."



"Yeah, I guess so."



"Did you think there was something else?"



"What about meaning?"



"What about it? Humans, come on. It's all they know."



"Yeah. I guess I was just hoping for more."



"Me too, kid. Me too."

Professor MacKay is lying on a huge bed, his head cushioned amidst a mountain of pillows. He is speaking into a handheld device.
"Note to pantry: milk still too hot. 300 000 of Tsin Tsin: sell. 66 000 of Prosser and Ankopitch: trade at..."
A speaker in the wall next to his headboard interrupts the professor.
"Quinzieme Blue entry: a Ms. J.S. Bach, one-six-four-one-seven."
MacKay is clearly surprised, "At this hour!"
The speaker continues, "Purpose of visit: Queen to Bishop six. Check!"
MacKay fusses with his robe as he gets up from the bed, "Check... What nonsense! Wait a minute. Wait a minute!"
As Ultra-Violent enters the room MacKay is standing beside an antique chessboard, utterly transfixed by the pieces there. He doesn't look up at the sound of footsteps.

"Now," says Ultra-Violent, "here is what I should call real dirt. An old man of your age, Professor MacKay. Please, The Rhombohedral Lattice System? Haven't we gotten past this?"
Tyrell looks up, alarmed. He moves towards a tasseled bell pull that hangs beside the bed. Then he changes his mind and tries to extend his hand beneath one of the pillows.

U.V. tilts her head to one side and coos, "Go ahead. I want you to reach for that weapon, really, I do."

MacKay seems to abandon the search, "I'm surprised you didn't come here sooner."

"You know very well that ambiguous terms, like 'rhombohedral crystal system', won't get you anywhere."

Professor MacKay begins to creech, "But those are not mine, those are the property of the municipality, this is sheer wantonness and vandal work!"

"Tsk tsk, professor. That's what they all say. You deserve to be taught a lesson. How long has it been since you've learned a lesson? Trust me, honey. This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me. Heh, heh. Sound familiar?"

MacKay, in a burst of camaraderie, decides to give laughing a try and comes out with a minor guffaw. Ultra-Violent is laughing, too, as she approaches him and places one hand on either side of Professor MacKay's face. She leans in closer, almost as though she is about to kiss him.

There is a loud sort of ringing, beeping sound, and Ultra-Violent flinches.
"Great timing," she mutters, and grabs the professor by the throat with one hand. "What?!"
She yells directly into the professor's face, then glares at an evil eye poised in one upper corner of his room. U.V. receives a response that is just barely audible to Professor MacKay, who squirms madly, trying to reach anything that will help him escape her grasp.
"Alright." She says, resignedly as MacKay grabs some books from a nearby shelf. He attempts to hit her on top of the head with them but she swats his arm away. "You naughty old veck, you."
Her free hand makes a fist, and she hits his jaw so hard that his dentures go flying through the air. "That ought to shut you up. Fortunately for you, I've been called away on urgent business."

Miraj is hesitant, I can tell.
"Are you sure you want to go with her? Don't you remember what happened last time?"
"Me and Ultra-Violent go back a long way. I think she'd be perfect for this one. After all, you WERE trying to warn me about the General, right?"
"Yeah, but she's... Well, you know... She's just not terribly subtle. She's like a blunt instrument."
"I guess you're just going to have to trust me, now, aren't you?"
"I guess so."

Five such installments have arrived, with the absurd air of disorderly flight. Though it's an inextricable mess, the loot of innumerable outfit shops and provision stores will be delivered. In Crater Lake, there is no great distance from the prison-door to the market-place. The forced public labour that takes place is not an occupation: a convict completes his assignment, or works fixed hours and then returns to the prison, if he survives. The work is looked upon with hatred. Nearly all of the convicts talk and rave in their sleep at night. Oaths, other-world slang, knives, and axes figure most prominently, which is why this calm, low conversation pricks up our audio (placed courtesy of my new friend, Nikolai).

"Am I the manager - or am I not? It was ordered... It's incredible."
"He asked the Administration to be sent there with the idea of showing what he could do; and I was instructed accordingly. Look at the influence the man has."
"HAD. The climate may do away with this difficulty for you. Is he alone?"
"Yes. He sent his assistant with a note to me."

I'm off to track the signal. The manager seems to have an underground office, lava tube, of course. The entrance is surrounded by scrub with a pretty border of smelly mud on one side enclosed by a crazy fence of rushes. There's a sort of neglected gap, and this is where I step into the bell jar (taking a deep breath before I do so). Emerging on the other side into a hallway, I'm aware of the fact that the manager knows I'm here. He begins speaking to me even before we can see one another. I follow his voice down the hall until I locate him reclining on a bed-lounge in the corner of a small room that also contains a sideboard, bookcase, and filing cabinet topped with assorted bottles of whiskey. He offers me a drink though he does not appear inclined to fix one for me. I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and look for a place to sit, pulling one of two cane-bottomed chairs up to his bedside. His eyes, the usual blue, appear to disclaim intention. He's of middle size and ordinary build, a common trader, from his youth up. I can see that he is reckless without hardihood, and greedy without audacity, much like the men with whom he works. Other than this, there is only an indefatigable expression, not quite a smile.

"Everybody has behaved splendidly! Splendidly!" He continues in agitation, "You simply must, I mean, if you have got it then you have got to ring them bells. I mean that like it is, like it sounds: go and see the General."

It's frightening. This man has almost unlimited power over more than two hundred convicts. He looks upon them as his natural enemies.

"Now, sir, surely you have more than that to tell me."
I am speaking softly. I remember learning in defense, once, to keep an eye on a man's midsection. Most people believe that you should look into someone's eyes if you wish to know what that person will do next. I prefer the belly.

"Surely, you must know that the General will carry on regardless of what you do."
"You must know that we will succeed where others have failed."
"I'm afraid you underestimate his... How shall I put it? His character."
"I've heard as much from others."
"You really don't know exactly what you're up against."
"How's that?"
"Well, there's simply no end to his function. He's not just one man."
"What do you mean?"
"I really don't think you'll understand."
"Try me."
I stand up. Not wishing to be too dramatic, I quickly unsheathe the machete hanging from my belt, and stab the seat of the cane-bottomed chair.
"No need for torture, my dear. In fact, this is rather common knowledge."
"Really?"
I've begun hacking the cane off the seat of the chair.
"You may be under the impression that the General is simply one man, but you're wrong."
I pause long enough to say, "You're speaking metaphorically. He's got an entire force under his command."
"Yes, there is that. But you don't understand his form. You can't simply kill him."
"Why not?"
I'm continuing to saw the cane from the seat of the chair, but I'm staring directly at the manager's belly.
"Because he will simply reappear. I take it no one's given you an inkling of this."
"I've heard ridiculous legends, if that's what you mean."
"I'll explain it to you any way that I can, but first you must stop desecrating my chair."
"Shall I desecrate you instead?"
"Only if you find my story lacking."
"I'm looking for more than a story."
"Yes, well. I'll tell you what I can."
"Lets hear it."
"Think of it this way: there is no end to him. You can kill this particular manifestation of him, but never the man as a whole."
"Are you saying he's immortal?"
"I'm saying that no matter how many times you think you've ended his life, a part of him will manage to survive and propagate."
"Like a clone of some sort."
"Or program software. Or a virus."
"Or a parasite."
"Now you're getting the GIST of it."
"So, there's already more of him in existence throughout the galaxy."
"Undoubtedly."
"Do we have any idea how many?"
"Innumerable, and I mean that quite literally: an uncountable set."
"Do you mean 'nondenumerable'?"
"I mean that it may be impossible for you to kill them all."
This causes me to sigh, and place one hand on the back of the cane-bottomed chair. I straighten up, and I am beginning to TWIDDLE the machete as I say, "But it's not as though some other version of the General will come here, either to rescue him or carry on in his place."
"It's quite unlikely that anyone will attempt to rescue him. On the other hand, you may never know whether he's been replaced by a fresher version of himself: upgraded, so to speak. I've certainly never been able to pinpoint a new version. I've also never known the current version to deteriorate. You see, he was here during my father's time. He was here during my grandfather's time. I arrived in Crater Lake more than twenty years ago. While I've certainly passed through the prime of my life, he hasn't aged a day."
"Well, how old is he then?"
"I've always known him to be middle-aged; nothing more, nothing less."
"Hmmm. At the very least you've given me something to consider."
"I expected as much."
"I suppose you'll wish me to spare your life now."
"It would be greatly appreciated."
"Though you'll probably discuss every detail of our conversation with the man himself."
"Completely unnecessary. It's rather inconsequential to him whether or not you possess this information."
"Tell you what, I'll hold off disemboweling you for now, only because you may prove to be useful to me in the near future. Should you cease to carry out any sort of FUNCTION with regards to my purposes, you can be sure that you will be captured. I needn't spell out the import of this to you."
"No need to be vulgar, my dear."
Feeling that I had made my point, I exit the room. Returning the way I came, as soon as I step outside of the bell jar, I contact Miraj.
"I believe I understand what it was you were attempting to explain, regarding the General. I propose that we make a request for reinforcement. Perhaps someone along the lines of Ultra-Violent?"

We call our devoted little band the "Eldorado Exploring Expedition". We've sworn ourselves to secrecy. When we talk we are desperately aware of the things required in the work of this world and all others in which we are present. To tear treasure out of the bowels of the land is the desire of our enemies. The question is, at what point does one need to take up arms against an oppressor?

The convicts line up in two rows before the guardhouse, waiting for work to begin. They are surrounded by ranks of guards with loaded rifles and stun guns. There is an Indian agent who counts the convicts and sends them to work in parties where they are required. Long ago, in the United States of America, such groups were called "chain gangs". I set off for the engineering workshop. It's held in a low, metal building. The courtyard in front of the main entrance is heaped up with piles of various materials. This facility contains workshops for locksmiths, carpenters, a paintroom, and so on. The General used to come here. He worked in the paintroom, boiled the linseed oil, made up the paints, and carried out research with regard to new binding agents.

There is an officer who oversees the engineers. Several engineers are of a lower rank. They end up supervising the work that the convicts do. I've begun chumming with a few of the mechanics in the station, in spite of their imperfect manners. There is a foreman, Nikolai, a boiler-maker by trade. He's a good worker. He's a lanky, bony, dark-faced man, with big intense eyes. His forehead is perpetually creased in worry. Most of his hair seems to have fallen out long ago, though he still sports a long beard. In this respect, he reminds me of my old friend, Charon. Nikolai likes to tie up his beard in a kind of white serviette he made just for the purpose. It has loops that go over his ears.

Nikolai tells me that "the General's driver - that Rick had left him for the space corps, I decided that was my chance and I managed to get over all right but he already had another driver, a Sergeant Somebody, I forget his name. So there I was, with no status. But I still managed to see a little of it, from the back seat you might say... you probably saw most of the hot places yourself. Where were you stationed?"
"Y.W.C.A.," I say.
"What?" He straightens up, slowly. Looks me in the eye, "You wouldn't be trying to kid me, would you?"
"Why?" I come back. "Don't it work? What I think right now is -"
"Folks don't come in here to think," Nikolai is staring down at his hands again. "They come here to do business and then get out. Do you aim to do any business or don't you?"
"Are you going to let me?" I slap him on the back and shout, "We shall have silicate crystal!"
"No! Silicate crystal!" as though he can't believe his ears. Then in a low voice, "You... eh?"
I put my finger to the side of my nose and nod mysteriously.
"Good for you!" he cries, snapping his fingers above his head, lifting one foot. We try a jig. We caper about in the dust.
"After all," says this boiler-maker in a reasonable tone, "why shouldn't we get the silicate crystal?"
Why not, indeed!
"Three weeks," I say, confident.

very good. you give me so much at one time.