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Season 11, Episode 25 Palm Beach, Florida
First Aired: April 10, 1999
In Palm Beach: an alleged trespasser; a store clerk claiming she was hit while trying to stop a shoplifter in a wheelchair; a suspect who launches a verbal tirade upon his arrest.
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- Premise: Real-life officers are followed by a camera crew, cinéma-vérité style, in a gritty up-close look at police work and the consequences of crime. The result: one of Fox's longest-running series (it premiered in March 1989). It also spawned a number of police-… (more)
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Robber hits 3 businesses in 30 minutes
ANAHEIM - Police are looking for a gunman who robbed three businesses near three 91 freeway exits in a 30-minute span.
The first robbery occurred at about 8:30 p.m. Thursday at a Circle K convenience store at East Riverdale Avenue and Tustin Avenue, just south of the freeway, said Sgt. Rick Martinez of the Anaheim Police Department.
Around 10 minutes later and about a mile to the east, the robber hit a Mobil gas station on Lakeview Avenue just north of the freeway, police said.
Twenty minutes later and another mile to the east, the gunman robbed a Shell station at Imperial Highway and La Palma Avenue just north of the freeway, Martinez said.
The robber fled with cash after each of the robberies, but no one was hurt, police said.
The robber was describes as a thin black man between 20 and 30 years old, between 5 feet 4 and 5 feet 7, wearing a hooded jacket. The vehicle the robber is believed to have been driving was not seen, Martinez said.
Anyone with information on the robberies is asked to call the Anaheim Police Department at 714-765-1900.
City News Service contributed to this report.
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subset: commoncrawl


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Sculpture picked for high-traffic Oak Park corner
'Arched Rings' will dress up Harlem and Ontario intersection
Don't be surprised if you see a bright red ball of rings pop up on the corner of Harlem and Ontario in the not-too-distant future.
After a brief competition over the last few months, Oak Park has finally picked a sculpture to place at the high-traffic intersection near Trader Joe's. Dubbed "Arched Rings," the piece — created by Oak Park artist Patrick McDonald — is about 10 to 12 feet high, 6 feet wide and constructed of red painted steel.
Village hall started the contest back in November, looking for sculptors to dress up the corner. Developer Whiteco Residential had agreed, when they built the multistory apartment building on the corner, to contribute $30,000 toward the piece of public art.
Altogether, 26 artists submitted to the contest. The Oak Park Public Art Advisory Commission whittled the field down to five, and held a public vote on the finalist. The commission agreed with the public's pick, and the village board is set to approve "Arched Rings" on Tuesday night.
"Some people may not like its bright, bright color, but it stands out against the comparatively neutral-to-grayish background there," David Sokol, head of the commission, said Monday.
Oak Park hopes to have the sculpture installed by late May.
Reader Comments
7 Comments - Add Your Comment
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Nancy from Oak Park
Posted: February 27th, 2011 11:39 AM
Whose brilliant idea? "Art" though it may be, it's foolish to add a distraction which will compete for drivers' attention on Harlem Avenue.
Posted: February 26th, 2011 2:36 AM
That intersection is high-trafficked by motorists, but public art such as this should be installed some place where pedestrians will see it.
OP Resident
Posted: February 24th, 2011 12:48 AM
$30,000 from the developer and how much from Oak Park taxpayers? Do we own the piece or just leasing it with an option to buy? Who pays for installation? The Oak Park Art Advisory Commission should be able to share the details. Glad that the work of an Oak Park artist was selected.
Kelly from Oak Park
Posted: February 23rd, 2011 10:48 PM
It's hard to debate such rigorously well-argued criticism as James', but I think an appropriate rejoinder would be: Cool! I agree that such a bold piece will be that much more striking against the subdued modernist box that is the Whiteco building.
tom broderick from oak park
Posted: February 23rd, 2011 12:51 PM
I've seen a couple of finished pieces of sculpture by this sculptor. One in Chicago along the lake front park. I think the other was at Navy Pier. Neither had the bold color of this one, but I enjoyed both. When the five finalists went online through the Wednesday Journal, it was hard for me to visualize them as large pieces. Now that this one has one, I look forward to the unveiling.
David Hammond from OakPark.com/Dining/Blogs
Posted: February 23rd, 2011 11:27 AM
There's a venerable tradition of local populations hating public sculpture in their area, at least in the intial phases. Picasso's loop sculpture is the classic example: first loathed, now loved. James, you're entitled to your opinion, of course, and thanks for offering it, but I'm guessing this work will grow on you and all of us. It certainly is a bolt of color in a colorless environment.
Posted: February 23rd, 2011 11:12 AM
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text:
Comments about 'CONCACAF: Real Salt Lake a heavy favorite against rebuilt Crew'
- Oldest first
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- Most recommended
An MLS team really needs to win the CCL and I think this RSL is the team that is
capable of doing it. I think that they will beat Columbus and then will become
the first MLS team to win a meaningful game in Mexico.
Go RSL!
- 8:28 p.m. Feb. 21, 2011
- Like
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It's here!
- 9:49 p.m. Feb. 21, 2011
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Go RSL!
"To be honest with you it's fun to play something meaningful right way and not have to wait a couple months before a big match," said defender Chris Wingert.
Chris, please try to remember that *all* of the MLS matches are meaningful!
- 8:43 a.m. Feb. 22, 2011
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While I think the game in Columbus will be close, especially with the weather, the game at the RioT will be no contest.
- 8:45 a.m. Feb. 22, 2011
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Go Real!!!
I can't wait for the game tonight. I'm excited that RSL is starting again.
Arriba RSL y ustedes van a ganar contra Columbus! No puedo esperar por el partido en Salt Lake!
- 10:21 a.m. Feb. 22, 2011
- Like
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I am really pumped for the game tonight. Finally the season starts again. I'm pretty excited to see how Alvarez will play with Morales/Sabo/Espy/Paulo/ ect.
- 3:00 p.m. Feb. 22, 2011
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Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake
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This no-springform-required cheesecake will be one of the easiest cheesecakes you'll ever make. Our recipe for rich and creamy Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake lets you take all the credit.
What You'll Need:
- 2 cups crushed cream-filled chocolate sandwich cookies
- 1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter, melted
- 2 (8-ounce) packages cream cheese, softened
- 2 eggs
- 3/4 cup sugar
- 1/2 cup (3 ounces) semisweet chocolate chips, melted
- 1/3 cup seedless raspberry preserves
What To Do:
- Preheat oven to 325 degree F.
- In a medium bowl, combine crushed chocolate sandwich cookies and melted butter; mix well and press into bottom and sides of a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate to form a crust.
- In a large bowl, beat cream cheese, eggs, and sugar until smooth. Reserve 1/3 cup of the mixture and set aside in a small bowl. Pour remaining mixture into prepared crust.
- Add melted chocolate and the raspberry preserves to reserved cream cheese mixture; mix well and drop by spoonfuls into mixture in crust. Swirl with a knife to create a marbled effect. Bake 50 to 55 minutes, or until almost set in the center. Allow to cool 1 hour then cover and chill at least 6 hours before serving.
It's nice to add a bit of color to this by garnishing each serving with a dollop of whipped cream, some fresh raspberries, and a sprig of mint.
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Crazy Good Pineapple Sheet Cake
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Jan. 19, 2011, 11:25 AM
The price of coking coal, up 25% in the last week, could see further increases as "higher raw-material costs ...can be passed on to end consumers," says an analyst. Queensland officially cuts its estimate for coking coal production by 10.5%.| Jan. 19, 2011, 11:25 AM
Jan. 11, 2011, 7:32 AM
Australian shares hang in there, but the aussie sinks as worsening flooding in Queensland forces an evacuation of Brisbane. Hardest hit are insurers exposed to the flood damage, but diversified miners like (BHP) and (RIO) are seeing no erosion to their value. Australia -0.08%. Aussie -1.0%.| Jan. 11, 2011, 7:32 AM
Jan. 6, 2011, 9:35 AM
So far, Asian steelmakers have enough stockpiles of coal to weather the disruption in shipments from Australia. However, it could take weeks to pump water out of flooded mines, leading steel producers to worry about cutting production should a new source of coal not be found.| Jan. 6, 2011, 9:35 AM
Jan. 6, 2011, 7:58 AM
Massey Energy (MEE) reached a settlement with regulators late yesterday, minutes before a court trial was set to begin over the safety of a Kentucky mine. Massey essentially agreed to immediately and temporarily close the mine any time inspectors find a safety violation.| Jan. 6, 2011, 7:58 AM
Jan. 5, 2011, 3:24 PM
U.S. coal producers could see an uptick in their business from Australian supply disruptions, especially Alpha Natural Resources (ANR +3.8%), the nation's leading supplier and exporter of metallurgical coal used in making steel. Also, MEE +2.8%, CNX +1.6%, WLT +1%. Aussie mining giants BHP Billiton (BHP -0.9%) and Rio Tinto (RIO -1.4%) continue to slide.| Jan. 5, 2011, 3:24 PM
Jan. 4, 2011, 6:05 PM
Appalachian coal settles at a two-year high today, a beneficiary of Australian floods, but also of larger forces. "Despite the one-time nature of (supply disruptions)... recent price moves foreshadow... tighter supply-demand picture," says an analysis from Dahlman Rose. (CNX -0.94%). (JRCC -1.91%). (MEE +0.18%). (ANR +2.65%).| Jan. 4, 2011, 6:05 PM
Dec. 21, 2010, 7:39 AM
Alpha Natural Resources (ANR) has reportedly made a bid for Massey Energy (MEE), and sources say ArcelorMittal (MT) and at least one other company are interested too. Massey says it's "not near a decision point" about selling the company vs. acquiring another business. (previously)| Dec. 21, 2010, 7:39 AM
Dec. 17, 2010, 7:24 AMMassey Energy (MEE) is reportedly exploring various strategic options, including taking over rival International Coal Group (ICO +5.4%) or possibly selling itself to one of several interested suitors, including Alpha Natural Resources (ANR). | Dec. 17, 2010, 7:24 AM
Dec. 7, 2010, 4:52 PMNine months after the worst U.S. coal mining disaster in 40 years, most of the 29 families who lost relatives at Massey Energy's (MEE) Upper Big Branch mine are torn over whether to accept Massey's $3M settlement offer or file suit. Key for many will be if federal and state investigations into the accident find the company responsible. | Dec. 7, 2010, 4:52 PM | 2 Comments
Dec. 6, 2010, 10:54 AM
The retirement of Massey Energy (MEE +2.9%) CEO Don Blankenship may increase the company's chances of acquiring another coal concern or speed up the process of selling the company outright. Blankenship had been viewed as opposing a sale to Alpha Natural Resources (ANR), so his departure could make a sale to the rival firm more likely.| Dec. 6, 2010, 10:54 AM | 1 Comment
Nov. 23, 2010, 2:37 PMMassey Energy (MEE -1.6%) sees a spike in volume attributed to a Business Standard story discussing Coal India as a potential buyer. | Nov. 23, 2010, 2:37 PM
Nov. 22, 2010, 1:36 PM
Nov. 17, 2010, 9:02 AM
Mediation discussions between Massey Energy (MEE) and hundreds of plaintiffs broke off yesterday evening, setting the stage for an August trial over the improper disposal of slurry. Plaintiffs are seeking $100M in damages, and Massey's insurers (including AIG) have refused to cover the claims.| Nov. 17, 2010, 9:02 AM | 3 Comments
Nov. 15, 2010, 9:48 AMShares of Massey Energy (MEE +1.7%) are rising after media reports suggest ArcelorMittal (MT) is potentially interested in buying the company. | Nov. 15, 2010, 9:48 AM
Nov. 5, 2010, 3:31 PMMassey Energy (MEE +11.2%) weighs a takeover offer from Alpha Natural Resources (ANR -3.5%), WSJ reports, and is expected to review other options that include an auction of the company at a board meeting later this month. Arch Coal (ACI +2.2%) and Consol Energy (CNX +2.2%) also may be interested in acquiring Massey. | Nov. 5, 2010, 3:31 PM | 1 Comment
Oct. 29, 2010, 1:51 PM
Massey Energy's (MEE +0.3%) top safety officer and at least five other company officials have invoked their Fifth Amendment rights and refused to answer questions from government investigators trying to determine the cause of April's deadly coal mining accident.| Oct. 29, 2010, 1:51 PM


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"Dog Sees God" a divine summer miracle at Splinter Group
It was over six decades ago that Charles Schulz put pen to paper and created the Peanuts comic strip, featuring a mixed bag of kids who tumbled through life clutching blankets, sucking thumbs, playing tricks and staying kids.
At the height of its popularity, Peanuts appeared in 2,600 papers in 75 countries and 21 languages. And through all those years, those kids – Charlie Brown, Lucy, Linus, Schroeder, Peppermint Patty, Snoopy and all the rest – stayed kids.
They are all grown up, however, in the dark play "Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead," the final play of the season for Splinter Group, running through June 29. It opened to a full house Friday night.
These kids have moved from the playground and the neighborhood to a hellish high school, where the absolute worst about these teenagers steps forward and asks the audience to try and understand how absolutely horrible life can be for young people.
It's certainly easy to see the horrible.
The play starts with CB (Charlie Brown, as played by Nate Press) writing a letter to a pen pal he wrote to when he was younger, talking about how sad he is that his wonderful dog (Snoopy) got rabies and killed a yellow bird (Woodstock) who had been friends with the dog.
The dramatic, frank picture of the bird's blood inside the doghouse and the maddened dog sitting in a corner, snapping at CB as he gently puts his hand in – combined with the fact that people came and put the dog down – gets this off to a frightening start.
The play, by Bert V. Royal, takes a decided downturn or uptick from that point, depending I guess on your point of view.
The story is a continued tale of identity. Searching for it. Defending it. Belittling it. Being ashamed of it. Switching it. All of it.
CB has a brief fling with Beethoven (a facile Ryan Krueger) much to the horror of everyone: his sister, two high school party girls, a jock who bitterly harassed Beethoven. The only one apparently unfazed by this dalliance is Van, a thinly disguised Linus who has become a doper.
The play has a tragic ending that I'm not going to give away, but let's just say a tissue or handkerchief may be useful.
As CB, Press is simply marvelous. He has this kind of natural way about him that can scream both "Holy cow" and "Aww come on" in the same breath. He is especially touching in the scenes where he writes to his pen pal.
Krueger, who plays the oft-bullied gay student who finds his only solace is in the piano room during lunch hour, is a spirited dispirited boy. Troubled and uncertain of who or what he is, he is reluctant to find out and when he approaches that threshold, he cringes in distaste. He is a formidable young actor who provides both humor and pathos in equal measure.
Most of the humor belongs to three of the girls, Emily Vitrano and Rachael Zientek, who play a couple of the worst kind of high school party girls and snobs, and Brenna Kempf, who plays CB's sister.
Kempf has fluctuating identity difficulties but loves the high school drama club, even though she's the only member. She is hard at work on a one-woman play where a caterpillar becomes a platypus instead of a butterfly. Her first rendition of the play is hilarious.
Zientek has the blowzy teenager down pat. She carries a bottle of vodka in her pack and a libido that is both unmatched and unfulfilled. Vitrano plays the anguished and insecure valley girl who is catty and sultry at the same time.
This is Vitrano's third appearance in the four-play season of the Splinter Group. She is obviously an actor of talent, but I would love to see her move out of the hot young horny babe role where she seems fixed. I think she's got some depth to her, and I'd like for someone to give her a chance to flex her chops.
Jim Farrell created Splinter Group to do plays that are unusual and interesting, and with that as his goal, his first season has been by and large a success. "Kimberly Akimbo" and this one were clear hits; the other two, "Mr. Marmalade" and "Trailer Park Prophecies," were a slightly mixed bag.
But finishing with "Dog Sees God" is fitting because there were no dogs in this season, and that portends good things for season two.
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|By PR Newswire
Article Rating:
|February 17, 2014 03:00 AM EST
AMSTERDAM, Feb. 17, 2014 /PRNewswire/ -- Ledzworld, the innovator behind the top brands in commercial LED lighting, announced today it has added a sleek and sophisticated ultra-dimmable AR-111 LED lamp to its product line—the world's first true retrofit sized premium 850 lumen, single light source AR-111 LED lamp. The company's AR-111 Platinum Ultra Dimmable LED lamp offers manufacturers, installers and designers a relentlessly tested, cost-competitive, efficient, and impeccably designed replacement for outdated halogen bulbs.
(Photo: http://photos.prnewswire.com/prnh/20140217/NY65080)
"A large number of current luminaires on the market with integrated LED light engines look bulky, but Ledzworld's unique AR-111 Platinum Ultra Dimmable LED has the appearance and characteristics of a sophisticated track-luminaire while efficiently delivering 850 lumens," said Jan Kemeling, Founder and Chief Sales and Marketing Officer of Ledzworld. "The aesthetic appearance makes the lamp ideal for spaces owners aim to impress guests in—hotels, lounges, restaurants, museums, hospitals as well as a variety of other applications."
The 16W AR-111 Platinum Ultra Dimmable LED is a premium single-source LED lamp with a CRI of 80 and is also available with a CRI of >90. The lamp features Ledzworld's unique Chameleon Driver—a technological breakthrough that adjusts itself to make a perfect electrical fit with a wide variety of the possible combinations of commonly used drivers and dimmers. The Chameleon Driver first detects the transformer type, then analyzes its waveform, and finally adjusts itself to create the perfect electrical fit with that particular transformer.
"This innovative Chamelion Driver makes our AR-111 Platinum LED lamp a true 'plug and play' solution that can be trusted with no surprises or disappointments," added Kemeling.
The Chameleon Driver contains the company's innovative cooling technology labeled as Controlled Thermo Regulation (CTR). The CTR provides an intelligent temperature-control monitoring system and acts as a watchdog—continuously measuring the ambient temperature inside the driver compartment using a built-in thermal sensor embedded into the Chameleon Driver chipset. When the lamps are overheating due to usage inside fixtures without sufficient airflow, the driver regulates the temperature by slightly dimming the lamps to guarantee that they will always operate reliably in a large variety of fixture designs.
The diamond-cut optics of Ledzworld's AR-111 Platinum Ultra Dimmable LED lamps are designed with the company's Reduced Glare Optical Technology (RGOT). Utilizing RGOT, the AR-111 Platinum Ultra Dimmable LED delivers a 25 degree or optional 40 degree beam angle.
Available in three color temperatures (2700K, 3000K, 4000K), the AR-111 Platinum LED has a patented removable outer ring that allows for flexibility in matching the lamp with the application or fixture color. The lamp comes with the company's three year, continuous usage warranty.
To learn more about Ledzworld's AR-111 Platinum Ultra Dimmable LED lamp, please visit www.ledzworld.com.
About Ledzworld
Headquartered in the Netherlands--but with a global reputation for excellence--Ledzworld is a leading developer, designer, and manufacturer of the highest-quality LED lighting solutions for the world's most discerning brands. We're set apart by a belief that our customers, and their customers, deserve best-in-class bulbs they can depend on.
Ledzworld is committed to providing LED lighting that meets—and exceeds—all your LED technology expectations.
Our product portfolio spans LED lamps and LED modules that raise the standard in the marketplace today. Researched and refined by a world-class team of 50 SSL engineers, each Ledzworld offering is trial tested for compatibility against hundreds of popular dimmer, transformer, and fixture combinations. The technology behind our products ensures easy, worry-free maintenance, every bulb, every installation, every time.
Ledzworld manages, controls, and oversees our own supply chain, from material sourcing to and manufacturing from our operational headquarters in Penang, Malaysia. We have additional sales offices across Europe and the United States to accommodate customers worldwide.
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Book Club
Titcomb's Bookshop Book Club meets every third Tuesday of the month at 7:00pm.
All are welcome to join in our discussion. For a complete list of our past book club picks, please click here.
On May 17, we will discuss Between You & Me: Confessions of a Comma Queen by Mary Norris. Mary will join the conversation by phone.
April 2016 Selection
March 2016 Selection
February 2016 Selection
January 2015 Selection
November 2015 Selection
October 2015 Selection
September 2015 Selection
July 2015 Selection
June 2015 Selection
Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart (Paperback)
April 2015 selection
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January 2015 Selection
November 2014 Selection
October 2014 Selection
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June 2014 Selection
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June 2013 Selection
January 2013 Selection
November 2012 Selection


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Ferrell A soft, persistent beeping insinuated itself into his awareness and nudged him gently towards waking. He snapped awake and immediately regretted having fallen asleep in his command chair, a piece of furniture designed to discourage inattention to duty. With exaggerated care he swiveled his head around in search of the thing which had awakened him. Burdened as he was with bleary vision and the fuzzy disorientation of the recently and involuntarily conscious, it took some time before he could focus well enough to pinpoint the source of the innocuous little chirpings, but finally his gaze came to rest on a squat cuboidal box which sat on a counter to his left and steamed, cheerfully, as it beeped to indicate that the steaming liquid within was ready. The coffee was a bit on the thim.side this morning, and he made a fuzzy mental note to do something about that after his dexterity had a chance to catch up to the rest of him. It was something of a miracle that the Potable Liquid Dispenser had been able to synthesize this particular beverage at all, however, so he really had no complaint. Coffee was quite obscure in this day and age; he had acquired a taste for it while on assignment to an old Earth colony whose inhabitants had managed to establish Coffea on some nearby tropical hillsides. So far as he knew, the plant had become extinct on its native planet when the last of its South American habitat had been cleared for an Environmental Impact Documents storage facility. This morning he was well disposed toward the PLD anyway, as it had succeeded in waking him where his ultratech biochronometer had failed utterly. The panmetallic composite disc implanted at the base of his skull was not only demonstrably unreliable as an alarm clock, it was also a constant source of vague physical irritation, despite the unctuous assurances of CENSRAD that such discomfort was an impossibility. Their Bioaugmentation Surgical Team had taken great pains to ensure that each and every one of the surrounding nerves was within the paresthetic continuity field; no sensation of the device was therefore medically possible. They wouldn't listen to his protestations to the contrary. The failure of the implant was therefore a source of satisfaction to him, especially with the vast array of other CENSRAD technology surrounding him. "Up to my navel in Biometrics," he said aloud to no one, "And the only thing around here that works worth a donkey's backside is the damned digital coffeepot." He smiled a smug smile and punched up something for breakfast. He finished his coffee and the thoroughly tasteless freeze-dried eggs and bacon he had made a determined effort to enjoy, and reached across to switch on the Implementation Scheduling display. It silently flashed his-mission for him (he had disconnected the voice module, which he found patronizing):
RECOMMENDED ACTION: FULL PRECAUTION PRELIMINARY INVESTIGATORY PROCEDURE "Oh, no," he groaned dismally. Despite the undeniable wisdom of taking every precaution against unknown and potentially fatal circumstances, he really despised the FPPIP. After a brief and pointless argument with himself over whether or not to disregard the computer recommendation, he sighed and gave in. You can't fight city hall, he thought, especially when you live there. After a quick sonic shower (he wished old-fashioned water were available; this thing left him for hours with the macabre impression that his skin was trying to inch its way off his body), he started putting on the Self-Contained Organism-Neutralizing Environmental Suit, which he would not be able to remove until the computer had determined that any artifacts or samples he retrieved from the colony were harmless. This, he decided, would not be a lot of fun. The several concentric layers of the Suit fit rather loosely over his frame, but when it was entirely assembled he snapped on the power cell, donned a more rigid helmet of the same material, and stepped into the Suit Integrity Chamber. A soft blue light enveloped him, and he felt the suit fabric contract. When he stepped out of the Chamber, he was covered in a tight gray sheath which was in effect a second skin. The ovoid helmet had melded with the suit collar, leaving only a thick transparent rectangle over his face to interrupt the ubiquitous gray. The suit protected him from everything, even his own tactile impressions; he felt, as usual, like a sensory deprivation experiment in progress. It matched his skin temperature precisely, and generated a thin but formidable bioprotective field which made the universe indistinct. CENSRAD propaganda said that the suit would protect him from anything smaller and less powerful than a Timber Wolf, a limitation he hoped never to put to the test. The suit was new technology, and his experience in it was limited to training exercises, where he had sloshed through seemingly endless Toxic Organisms and Substances Tests. This was his (and, in fact, the suit's) first field assignment. He found himself longing for the old, cumbersome, shoulder-harnessed Cocoon Generator. After checking the efficacy of his precautionary measures by subjecting himself and his suit to a Laminar Flow Simulated Severe Hazards Integrity Test, he slid open a panel and removed a large Mass-Negating Instrument Case, whose surface repellor field activated automatically, giving the bulky MANIC the apparent mass of a few dozen neutrinos. He grasped the small yellow handle which protruded conspicuously from a recessed area in one end of the MANIC and drew out a syntifiber strap about a meter long. He walked
through the shimmering airlock boundary membrane, tugging the weightless MANIC along behind. "Come on, Rover," he said to the silent metal box, "Let's go find you a fire hydrant." The Civilian Outpost Permit Application and File for Colony JS42719-13 glowed before him in miniature on the MANIC's Remote Data Acquisition screen: DATE OF APPLICATION: 2208.8.21 DATE OF FINAL APPROVAL: 2209.1.18 REGISTERED NAME: CAER ANNWEN MINIMUM TECHNOLOGY LEVEL OUTPOST ESTABLISHED ABOUT 2210.2 BY A GROUP OF WEALTHY CITIZENS WHO WERE APPARENTLY THE REMNANTS OF A LATE-TWENTIETH CENTURY SOCIAL EXPERIMENT IN WHICH SUBJECTS UNDERWENT VOLUNTARY RETROGRADE SOCIAL AND TECHNOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT FOR REASONS UNKNOWN. THE GROUP POSSESSED ONLY PRIMITIVE COMMUNICATIONS EQUIPMENT AND VIRTUALLY NO TECHNOLOGICAL CAPABILITY. THEIR DECLARATION OF INTENT TO EMIGRATE STATED UNDER JUSTIFICATION FOR NONSTANDARD EQUIPMENT MANIFEST THAT THE MAJORITY OF THE RECOMMENDED PIECES OF SURVIVAL GEAR WERE BEING DELETED FROM SHIPBOARD STORES BECAUSE SUCH EQUIPMENT WAS 'TOO TECHNOLOGICAL.' SINCE EMIGRATION STATUTES DID NOT AT THAT TIME REQUIRE STANDARD MANIFESTS, THE APPLICATION WAS EVENTUALLY APPROVED. THE COMMUNIQUES ISSUED BY THE COLONY WERE BRIEF AND WIDELY SPACED. ALTHOUGH SOME TELEMETRY DATA WERE RECEIVED UNTIL 2215.12.3, THE LAST VOICE TRANSMISSION WAS RECORDED 2215.5.1; CONTENT FOLLOWS: 'HAPPY NEW YEAR.' THIS COLONY WAS DESIGNATED 'ECCENTRIC BUT NOT THREATENING' BY THE BUREAU OF SPACE DEMOGRAPHICS AND ITS FILE CLOSED ON 2217.5.1. He shook his head. "What a bunch of card-carrying weirdos," he muttered. The Surface Configuration Analysis computer had landed his beetle of a ship about fifty meters from the periphery of the principal settlement of the lost colony. The settlement consisted, he noted derisively into the voice data recorder of the MANIC, of crumbling wooden buildings, rotted canvas shelters, and a fairly impressive structure of native stone he dubbed 'the Castle.' He decided to start his survey at the edge of the settlement and work his way systematically toward the center, which was dominated by this rock edifice. "An interesting collection of antiques here, some of them probably valuable," he dictated in his detached, professional voice. He wiped off an astonishing stratum of dust from a table in one of the decrepit buildings and was taken aback by a fleeting shimmer of gold. He blew off the rest of the fine powder with a compressed air nozzle and discovered a half-finished illuminated page of stained and crumbling parchment. He had heard of such artifacts through ancient history holotapes; a few related items had escaped the ravages of man and time and were carefully preserved in regional museums. As a child,
he recalled visiting the Bloomington International Gardens and Museum of Culture, or something to that effect. There he had seen a vast array of more-or-less wondrous examples of--art and the craft of making things for both beauty and utility's sake before the advent of mechanized aesthetics. He felt, in viewing them and even at his tender age, that here was something quite remarkable, quite without equivalence in his modern world. His awe was evoked most especially by his discovery in that atavistic maze of a large flexiglass display case of various hand-produced documents. The only one he could clearly recall was a sheet marked "Ramsey Psalter c. 1300," with the words "Pierpont Morgan" stamped at an angle along one margin. He never expected to see anything like that delicate flower of antiquity on this remote rock. He reverently ran his fingers very lightly around the raised gold letters and wondered at the inscription "Geoffrey d' Avalon, scripsit" at the bottom of the page. A quick check of the emigration file showed no one by that name on the personnel manifest. He slid the sheet carefully into an artifact pouch, evacuated it, and placed it in the storage compartment of the quietly hovering MANIC. He grabbed the tote strap. "Here, boy!" he said, then whistled between his teeth. The MANIC followed with mute obedience. After several hours of exploring and cataloguing findings, including some odd wooden frames with pegs set into them, various unusual stringed musical instruments, and a number of strange garments made partially of steel plates or interlocking metal rings, he finally reached the castle. "Actually," he noted to the MANIC's data recorder, "The edifice consists of an arched entryway through an incomplete rectangular stone wall enclosing several wooden buildings and a circular stonework structure about..," he glanced at his inclinometer and made a quick mental calculation, "Ten meters high and fifteen meters in diameter." He cleared his throat with just a trace of nervousness and continued, "Several more of the skeletal remains seen in the outer village are present here, in apparently random locations." His preliminary analyses of remains had failed to pinpoint any probable cause of death, but that wasn't surprising considering the age of the remains and the limited analytical capability of the survey instruments in the MANIC. There were no broken bones or punctured skulls in evidence, so he concluded that whatever had killed them had indeed been smaller than a timber wolf, or at least not similarly predaceous. He was relieved and vaguely anxious, at the same time. He opened a door in the main building and discovered a circular platform, about half a meter high and the same in diameter, with a round hole cut neatly out of its center, leaving a ten centimeter rim around the outer perimeter. A metal cannister could be seen under the platform, which was supported by three stone blocks. He realized with a start that this was a crude toilet. On a small shelf to one side was a roll of decomposing paper, of a loosely woven, flimsy manufacture that stood in stark contrast to the finely executed handmade papers he had found in the room with the illuminated parchment. The rough paper was a strangely familiar muted blue color, that he couldn't exactly place. He found even more items for his curious collection in the main room of the castle. Ornately carved and upholstered chairs, round metal table ornaments. utensils, elegant drinking vessels, jewelry of diverse construction, and a sealed box of intact rolls of the same pale blue paper he had found previously. His stomach told him that it was time for
lunch, so he returned to the ship, MANIC and arcane treasure in tow. After lunch he sat contentedly at his sorting table, examining his booty under different wavelengths of light. One of the items he had recovered was a small wooden box, locked with a tiny brass padlock. He carefully pried the hinges off of the box and opened the lid. The box contained a rectangular object wrapped in some sort of smooth, fragile fabric which dropped away in tatters as with gloved hands he lifted the object and set it on the table. With exaggerated care he spread the wispy fabric to reveal a number of lavishly decorated cards, each boasting a different gold-highlighted painting. He was chortling with barely repressed excitement now, as he came to realize the market value such objets d=art would command on Earth. They were all hand painted on hand manufactured plaques, exquisite in every detail. No one on Earth had bothered to keep alive the techniques of hand painting, not when multidimensional graphics were merelv a matter of calling up any of several hundred thousand existing ArtiFex programs and routing the output through a decent plastigenesis unit. He spread out the cards and picked one, at random. He turned it over after marveling for a moment at its intricately intertwined knotwork back, and was greeted by a stone column apparently in the midst of being struck by an electrical discharge from some unseen source. Figures and debris were being flung haphazardly out in all directions from the top of the stricken structure, as well they might. " The Tower," it read in gothic letters at the bottom. He studied it for a moment then set it aside, strangely disturbed, and selected another card. He turned it over with less enthusiasm and a bit of apprehension. This card showed a figure prone on a bunk, partially covered with fabric, cradling its head in two gaunt hands. Nine meter-length slivers of sharply pointed metal hung suspended above the distressed figure. He stared dolefully at the portrait then dropped it nervelessly, uncomfortable at the obviously dolorous symbolism. He sat staring off into space for a moment, blankly, then with a sudden resolve he picked up the deck and rifled through it. He saw pictures of smiling men and women, dancing and celebrating gaily. There were lovers, merchants, mounted warriors, and triumphal processions. Reassured that there were positive images in the deck, he returned it face down to the table and prepared to try again. He hesitated, trying to 'feel' for the correct card, then turned over one to which his hand seemed drawn. It portrayed a strangely dressed figure carrying a thin pole over one shoulder, from which hung a small sack. An animal of the small, furry, and devoted variety postured at the figure's feet, which were about to step over the edge of a considerable precipice. "THE FOOL," it was labeled. He slowly returned it to its place in the deck, puzzled and vaguely uneasy, although he had no identifiable reason to be concerned. He went over to watch some humorous holotapes and tried to relax. A few minutes under the neuromuscular relaxation field and he slept, unaccountably exhausted. His dreams were uneasy and distinctly foreboding. He awoke just before planetary dusk when the ship's lights switched on. He stood up groggy and disoriented, then felt nature's call and staggered to the toilet. After relieving
himself, he pressed the floor switch and waited for the sonic waste residue unit to activate. It didn't. He pressed the switch again, harder, then bent down and hit it sharply with his clenched fist. Nothing happened. The red overload indicator on the status panel near the lav station glowed brightly. He had always meant to rewire it so that it spelled out 'TILT,' since that was essentially what it was intended to indicate. "Damn and damn!" he muttered under his breath. The last thing he wanted to do in his indisposed condition was dig around in the wall circuits with a diagnostic probe. He thought about cleansing himself with a bit of his clothing, but he was still encased in the stupid 'germ suit.' Only a field neutralizing grid, such as the one surrounding the toilet seat, could penetrate that bioprotective field while he wore the suit. Instead, he swore energetically. He could reach down through that field to clean himself, he reasoned, if he could find something to do it with. Taking off the suit without first dealing with his problem would be a messy proposition, details of which he found it best not to contemplate. Sometimes technology just got in its own way, he thought, "No backup system for this scenario, is there, you CENSRAD geniuses?" He snarled derisively at the lav station mirror. About the time he was considering dismantling the nearby environmental maintenance unit to get at its fibrous filter jackets, he remembered the sealed box of paper in the next room. With a sudden burst of logic, he deduced the function of the pale blue paper next to the crude toilet. "Of course that's what it's for!" he fairly shouted, "Not a sonic transducer in the whole bloody village, was there?" He felt a pang of disdain for modern technology and those who live solely by its dicta. "At least," he observed wryly, "They didn't have to have a Level II certification in spacecraft avionics to take a dump." The paper was in quite good shape, and it fulfilled its function admirably. His journey to the flight deck had been a little grim, though, because the suit had sealed up the moment he left the toilet seat, trapping the offending residue in situ, as it were, and making his halfcrouched ambulation an adventure in unwanted lubrication. Once returned to his seat with the now-precious paper, he pondered again the maddening familiarity of the bluish color, grasping ineffectually at some salient memory just beyond his mental reach. He deactivated his soiled environmental suit, climbed into his favorite old coveralls, and studied his treasures (pointedly avoiding the depressing cards) until he could stay awake no longer. The next morning he woke before the dawn, a persistent headache having lent a bizarre texture to his dreams, which though forgotten lingered on in a diffuse feeling of unease and dread. He stumbled to the command chair and pushed the timer override button on the PLD. A ready light and the pleasant little beeping came on in about fifteen seconds, and the weak coffee dribbled out into his new cup (one of the ceramic cups from the castle). "Damn and damn!" he croaked, "Forgot to adjust the mixture again." He took cup in hand and plopped tiredly into the command chair. He decided to skip breakfast at the behest of his gastrointestinal system. Feeling as though he needed to vomit, he struggled into a fresh germ suit and returned to the castle.
The only significant find of that day was a small hand-written journal, kept by someone apparently in a position of authority. Most of the references made no sense to him, but occasionally there would be mention of subjects he understood, such as the status of the shipboard reactor (still functioning, he noted, so these people probably hadn't succumbed to radiation sickness) and lists of necessary supplies. As the original stores had been depleted, the colonists were forced to make increasing use of the native resources. Food seemed not to have been a problem-none of the remains had shown any sign of nutritional deficiencies under his most sophisticated autopsy scanner. In fact, the colonists seemed to have made their way with remarkably little difficulty, in all respects save one. Every last one of them was dead. It bothered him more than he cared to admit that he still hadn't the faintest clue why. He spent the rest of that day trying diligently to find an answer to that question, when he wasn't on the toilet, that is. He for the first time in his life understood the simple truth in the expression 'having the runs,' and he was not enjoying the experience. He still hadn't located the problem with his own toilet, so he continued to make use of the salvaged paper. He collected, between visits to the bathroom, every scrap of human remains he could locate and fed them to the biomedical pathology analyzer, which received and catalogued without comment the bones and mummified flesh of these 'eccentric' colonists of one and one-half centuries ago. His condition steadily worsened, to the point where he decided to submit himself to the degradation and damned inconvenience of a complete physical exam. The medanalysis computer in the infirmary told him to strip, in the tradition of examining physicians throughout history, then proceeded, using remotely manipulated diagnostic appendages, to probe, sense, prod, and sample him for almost an hour. He lay quietly in the suspensor field, trying not to squirm, confronted by yet another medical tradition. "Watch where you're ... hey, that's cold, dammit!" The final diagnosis by the computer was, PROGRESSIVE COLONIC EPITHELIAL CELL EXFOLIATION WITH CONCURRENT DEHYDRATION AND ELECTROLYTE IMBALANCE RECOMMENDED COURSE OF TREATMENT: MAINTAIN FLUID AND ELECTROLYTE BALANCE; NEUTRALIZE CAUSATIVE AGENT He stared incredulously at the display for a moment. "Neutralize causative agent? I need a computer programmed by the Spanish Inquisition with diagnostic software worth more than the average planet's yearly gross product to tell me that?!!" He stood very still in front of the terminal and quivered with anger. He closed his eyes, regulated his breathing, and slowly unclenched his fists. Then he walked calmly over to the keyboard and typed, politely,
specify causative agent The computer seemed to consider for a moment, then blithely reported, MOLECULAR STRUCTURE NOT IN CATALOGUE He stopped short and inhaled sharply, "Not in catalogue?" he breathed in disbelief and wonder. Over one hundred billion compounds were stored in that onboard database. list analogues or related compounds The computer again paused slightly, then answered: POLYPEPTIDE COMPLEX WITH UNIDENTIFIABLE MOLECULAR CONSTITUENTS. APPROXIMATE MOLECULAR WETGHT 2.5 X 10 AMU. RESEMBLES CROTOXTN, MAY BE ANALOGUE
Patiently, he called up the organic analysis program and requested the toxicology database. inquiry COMPOUND? crotoxin There was a long pause, during which he imagined the computer flipping idly through a few billion cards in a huge index file. COMPOUND INFORMATION REQUEST: CROTOXTN SOURCE: TERRESTRIAL TOXIC SUBSTANCES ENTRY # 2588 DESCRIPTION: PRINCIPLE COMPONENT OF RATTLESNAKE (CROTALUS) VENOM. ISOLATED C. 1956 DETAILED ANALYSIS FOLLOWS He hit the 'end session' key in disgust. "Rattlesnake venom? Where in the infinite cosmos could I possibly have picked up rattlesnake venom?" He called up the biosciences database and selected the vertebrate species zoogeography section. genus crotalus GENUS CROTALUS: SEVERAL SPECIES OF PIT VIPERS FOUND ON
EARTH, WESTERN HEMISPHERE. RELATED TO GENUS SISTRURUS, Q.V. SPECIES ACCOUNTS FOLLOW He switched impatiently to the comparative toxicology section. show distribution of animals producing crotoxin or analogues CROTOXIN: PRODUCED BY TERRESTRIAL SNAKES IN THE SUBFAMILY CROTALINAE, PRINCIPALLY THE GENERA CROTALUS AND SISTRURUS ANALOGUES: RELATED COMPOUNDS SECRETED BY GIANT BLADDERWORMS (MACROCELLATA) OF γ-OPHIUCHUS II He stared blankly at the wall and spoke quietly, as if from a great distance, "It's thirty light years to gamma Ophiuchus." He finally snapped back into real space and time, but before he could pursue the giant bladderworm, of which he had never heard, he felt that old familiar feeling. He almost didn't make it in time. He spent the remainder of the day on or near the toilet, and started on his second roll of blue paper. He wondered what he would do when the case ran out, but decided that there wouldn't be much left of him to wipe, by that time. For some reason, this thought triggered a memory of an ancient folk song he had heard a primitive recording of in his youth. He hummed fragments of it, but couldn't remember what it was called. Oh well, he thought, I'll think of it eventually... He finally decided, as he continued to weaken despite massive vitamin supplements and a portable IV unit for pushing fluids and salts, to try taking rattlesnake antivenin. He went to the organic reagent dispenser console and typed in, synthesis feasibility inquiry COMPOUND? crotoxin antivenin, 20 units ANTIVENIN, CROTALINAE, POLYVALENT FEASIBILITY STATUS: FEASIBLE SYNTHESIS TIME : APPROXIMATELY SIX HOURS PROCEED? Y OR N yes Five hours and forty-eight minutes..later his twenty units dripped out into a small plastic vial. The medical computer said,
INFUSE WITH SALINE AND ADD ONE STANDARD DOSE OMNIMYCIN, ADMINISTER VIA IV DRIP FOR FOUR HOURS NOTE: ANTIVENIN IS OF QUESTIONABLE THERAPEUTIC VALUE IF MORE THAN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS HAVE ELAPSED SINCE ENVENOMATION When the four hours were up he felt no different than before he had started the treatment, but he staggered to his feet nonetheless and tried to convince himself that the crisis was past. He watched a few holotapes and ate a freeze-dried candy bar. He felt very tired, and dragged himself finally to bed, wondering whether he would wake up. He did wake up, the biochronometer implant doing its job for once, and he lay quietly on his disheveled bunk, testing his body, trying to predict how it would feel to get up out of bed. He eventually decided to damn the torpedoes and swung his feet over the edge of the suspensor mattress. He was momentarily light-headed, but then the room stabilized and he felt surprisingly well, considering his condition of late. He stood up gingerly and waited for the floor to sink. It was a very solid floor, and when it had made no move to fall out from under him after a minute or two, he relaxed and started to plan his day. Things seemed to be improving. He was fine until, after a lunch of solid food for the first time in two days, he had to go to the toilet. He was still producing prodigious amounts of liquid and some little blood, but he didn't at least feel the gut-wrenching pain he had previously experienced each time he had emptied his bowels. He absentmindedly pressed the sonic waste removal switch, more out of habit than anything, and was puzzled for a moment until he remembered the paper. Smiling at his lapse of memory, he reached for the roll and cleaned himself thoroughly. He even whistled a little.
About an hour later he was sitting at the work table on the flight deck, idly examining his collection with some idea of starting to catalogue them, when his glance fell on the wooden box. He stared at it for several minutes, dreading what he knew he was going to do, then his hand reached out for it, as if of its own volition. He folded back the brittle cloth and removed the cards. Once again he fanned them out on the table before him and closed his eyes. His fingers chose one without hesitation, and he turned it slowly over. It showed a figure lying prostrate in a pool of dark liquid, presumably blood, with ten of the sharpened metal blades protruding from its back. He stared at this apparition in fear and anger for a brief moment, then swept the cards from the table with one enraged swipe of his arm. He sat there shaking, restraining the sudden unexplainable urge to cry. Finally the effort proved too much for him; big streaming tears ran wetly down his face and splashed silently onto the table. Much later he fell asleep, head on folded arms. His dreams were grotesque, tormenting monsters that leapt at him from redly pulsing cards, yielding terrible bright weapons of steel. He awoke with a pressing need to relieve himself and struggled to his feet. He took two steps in the direction of the toilet and suddenly the floor leapt at him in. earnest. He willed his arms to extend themselves and cushion his fall, but they were deeply asleep
and refused his bidding. He therefore landed rather hard, scraping his right cheek roughly on an equipment station support tongue, and lay there for a long moment, too stunned to move. Finally he made an attempt to struggle the rest of the way to his destination, but his sphincter muscles were tired of the uneven struggle and surrendered to incontinence. He collapsed onto his forehead and lay there whimpering feverishly, as he fouled himself and the floor. It took about fifteen minutes for him to be able to rally enough courage and strength to get up. The increasingly uncomfortable state of his posterior region was at least partially responsible for his return to action. He ripped off his cherished coveralls and tossed them summarily into the disposal unit, not without a pang of regret. He touched a series of buttons on a panel near the door and the floor panels underneath his refuse glowed momentarily, then faded, leaving behind a thin layer of ash. He picked up the cards and other objects from the floor, then hit another button. A sudden thin sheet of high velocity gas streamed across the floor, carrying the ash with it as it whooshed out through small vents on the bottom of the far wall. Later that evening he began to pass noticeable traces of fresh blood. The flow increased with time, and he mused grimly that this must be what menstruation was like. He was decidedly weaker by the next morning, and he realized that he was running out of time and options. He decided to put the computers to work again. Damn little use they would be to anyone if he died out here. He tied all satellite data systems into the mainframe and brought the Principal Analysis Program to bear on his problem. It would retrieve, correlate, and analyze all available data relevant to his condition, at considerable expense to all other instrumentation and power systems, in a last ditch effort to save his hide. RETRIEVAL COMPLETE. FUNCTION? multiple factors analysis MULTIPLE FACTORS ANALYSIS SELECTED. UTILIZATION FACTOR? 100 100 PERCENT UTILIZATION REQUESTED. **WARNING** TOTAL COMMITMENT RENDERS ALL DATA SYSTEMS USER INACCESSIBLE UNTIL ANALYSIS IS COMPLETED. AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED. ENTER CODE WITHIN FIFTEEN SECONDS. ce-es2-00a CODE ACCEPTED. TOTAL COMMITMENT OPTION SELECTED. The entire ship seemed to shudder. All ancillary displays and systems went to standby as all instrument power was diverted to the central processing circuits. He made his way to the toilet and sat there, waiting. He had little will left for anything else. He leaned back against the thinly padded panel above and behind the toilet
assembly and closed his eyes, fighting off vertigo and nausea. He listened to the unnatural silence of the ship around him, stilled by the diversion of the vessel's life blood to the computer. A cold fear crept over him as he began to consider the very real possibility that he could die before the computer could finish its analysis. There was no guarantee that even the PAP could come up with anything to save him. The prospect of his death, here, on a planet about which he knew next to nothing, seemed somehow especially wrong to him. He tried to remember what little he had noticed about the planet on the trip in. The planet was rather small, green and white, and had the most interesting oceans he had seen in a long while. They were apparently possessed of a high concentration of magnesium and copper, which lent to them a very striking greenish hue, as richly green as the oceans of Earth were blue. He hadn't investigated the coloration any further, because the computer had not deemed it threatening or otherwise noteworthy. He decided that he was beginning to rely too much on the damned computer, at the expense of his own formerly considerable scientific curiosity. Interest in his surroundings had slowly eroded into blind trust of his array of sensors and probes, which were supposed to be extensions of his own senses, not replacement s for them, he reminded himself. He had noted the usual physiographic features as the ship descended: land masses, mountains, plains, forests, and bodies of water. All standard fare for civilian-colony-approved planets. The ship had been guided by the computer over a narrow belt of trees which bordered the settlement to the southeast; bizarre trees with smooth silvery bark and, as revealed in one smoothly couped trunk, unexpectedly pale blue wood. The same pale blue as the paper.... Finally understanding why that shade of blue had seemed familiar to him was a relief, trivial though the knowledge might be in his present situation. He reasoned that the colonists must have used up their stock of paper and begun manufacturing their own from pulp derived from the silvery trees. They hadn't bothered too much with high quality manufacture, but what was the point in making tightly-woven bond for use as toilet paper? It would probably be less absorbent, anyway. He was forming a solid admiration for these resourceful and talented people who not only disdained computers and technology, but got along perfectly well without them. Well, except for one problem, perfectly well. He drifted in and out of delirium for an infinity. He fell from a vivid dream of large, blubbery creatures in colorful ballerina outfits (from an ancient holotape he had once seen) into sudden, crisp lucidity. He opened his eyes and looked around with eyes sharply in focus, alert to the smallest details, as if he were examining the universe for the first time. His gaze came to rest on the roll of paper by his right hand, and he began softly to chuckle. He saw tiny yellow faces, each wearing a bright smile, rise up from the paper and swirl around in the air before his face, joining into short chains which sometimes closed, forming small circles which floated lazily through the ceiling when he tried to follow their paths with his eyes. He laughed out loud at this phantasmagoria and thought about a chemist: a man who, centuries before, had deciphered the structure of the benzene molecule by dreaming about six carbon atoms, which linked together into the
now-familiar circular molecule in his nocturnal vision. Or so the story went. There didn't seem to be anything particularly relevant about smiley faces, however, so he closed his eyes and tried to ignore them, fearing vaguely for his sanity. The faces were still there, in his mind's eye. No, they weren't faces any longer, just little groups of concentric rings that he abruptly recognized as ion crystallographic images of atoms. This was going to be a revelation of some sort, he thought; it's a pity it has to be so trite. The first images to appear he decided were carbon atoms. They wheeled and whirled in a spectral ballet across his circumambient mental stage, some of them metamorphosing into other elements: nitrogen, oxygen, sulfur, then hydrogen. This was beginning to resemble some extremely well-orchestrated organic chemistry lecture. He wondered if every sentient being, upon the hour of its death, were treated to a similarly animated vision. The images were following an increasingly complex alchemical choreography, groups joining with other groups, twisting around themselves, spiraling into helices, then folding back upon themselves into more complicated patterns, which linked with other such creations to form even higher ordered structures. The sheer poetry of it all was overwhelming to him; it seemed to him an important and previously unimagined synthesis of art and science. He thought about how he would report it to CENSRAD: TO: THE CENTER FOR SPACE RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT FROM: EXPLORATIONS SCIENTIST II GERRAN SYMONS PRESENT ASSIGNMENT: INVESTIGATION OF COLONY JS42719-13 STATUS: FINAL REPORT DETAILS FOLLOW HONORED DOCTORS, AM SITTING ON MY HOPELESSLY CLOGGED WASTE REMOVAL UNIT WATCHING THE RISE AND FALL OF BIOCHEMISTRY. MY COMPUTERS ARE BUSILY CONTEMPLATING THEIR EVENTUAL POWER DEATH AFTER I AM NOT HERE TO RECYCLE THEIR REACTOR. HAVING A WONDERFUL TIME, WISH ANYTHEHELLBODY ELSE WERE HERE. MUST TERMINATE REPORT NOW, AS I WANT TO CATCH THE OPENING OF THE NEXT SHOW. SOMETHING ABOUT PROTEINS ON BROADWAY. NO LONGER YOURS, G.S., ESII Proteins on Broadway. He snickered at the reaction that would surely provoke back at CENSRAD. "Yes," he continued, out loud, "I've been wiping my butt with smiley faces which turn out to be Thespians Extraordinaire, song and dance atoms of the highest caliber. Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting the incomparable Polly and the amazing Peptides...
Throughout his recent musings, he had been aware of a nagging feeling of having missed something; this blossomed now into full scale how-could-I-have-been-so-stupid revelation. With a hoarse whisper intended as a shout of triumph, he fell forward onto his knees and crawled painfully over to the materials analysis substation, paper roll in hand. He tore off a piece, wadded it up, and tossed it weakly into the receptacle. He reached up, with effort, as if he were trying to change a light bulb in the ceiling while standing on tiptoe, and hit the ANALYZE button with the heel of his hand. He stopped moving for a moment to keep the room from spinning too violently, then dragged himself over to the computer console. He crawled very gingerly, to reduce his intense desire to lose consciousness. He willed himself to stand, but the muscles required would not respond. He tried pulling himself up by grasping the edge of the console, but he was too weak. He knelt there, panting, maddeningly unable to reach the keyboard which seemed his only chance for survival. In inspired desperation he picked up a shoe and heaved it toward the housekeeping control panel. It fell short and bounced into the adjacent room. He located the other shoe, after a brief, frantic search, and took careful aim. With an effort that left him exhausted and trembling, he flung the shoe in a soaring arc. It reached apogee and seemed to fall toward the panel very slowly, as if the density of the air had suddenly increased a hundredfold. After what he imagined were eons, the shoe finally struck, depressing several buttons as it did so. The floor began to glow in several spots, one of them under his left knee. His pants and outer layers of skin charred instantly, but the pain enabled him to leap to his feet long enough to catch himself on the edge of the console and lock his elbows. He reached up with his traumatized knee and hit the chair release button. The swivel chair emerged from beneath a floor panel and he fell heavily into it. His sorely injured knee sent waves of pain through him, a teeth-grinding agony that shot through every sensate cubic centimeter of his body. He bit through his upper lip as he typed in the command to append new data. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he called up the biosciences database to find out more about the giant bladderworm. No response. He hit the master override key, in growing alarm and frustration. Still nothing. In one awful moment, he remembered the total commitment option. This was the last straw, the final indignity, he thought bitterly. Despite years of training in observation and procedure, he had made an embarrassingly obvious connection between the blue paper and his medical problem too late. The only thing which had penetrated his bioshield had been the paper. He had been unforgivably sloppy; he hadn't analyzed the paper for anything, not even gross contamination. He had quite probably introduced the agent of his own demise. He had to admit, there was a certain poetic justice here. The room began to blur around the edges as he slipped into comatose oblivion. His head slid forward and he hit the keyboard with his forehead. Still possessed of a marginal awareness, he had the surreal impression that the keyboard had materialized suddenly and maliciously a few microns from his nose. He stared at it obtusely, too close to actually focus on it. After a few seconds he became dimly aware of a diffuse greenish glow coming from somewhere above his eyelashes. With great effort he twisted his
head to the left, so that his angle of vision shifted upwards. He squinted, then began to make out words printed on the screen. This is no big deal, he thought, there are almost always words being displayed on a monitor screen while a computer is running a normal routine... He realized that any readout on this particular screen by this particular computer was vastly significant, and forced himself into a relatively alert state. He saw a string of seemingly unconnected statements, then remembered the various abortive commands he had issued while the PAP had control of the system: MULTIPLE FACTORS ANALYSTS COMPLETE +++INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR PROXIMATE RESOLUTION ... COMMAND OVERRIDE ACCEPTED BIOSCIENCES DATABASE, VERSION 2363.5 FUNCTION? He stared at the screen for a minute or two, trying to force comprehension into his neural pathways. Eventually he watched as one finger slowly typed in general zoology section inquiry: giant bladderworm GIANT BLADDERWORM: VERNACULAR DESIGNATION FOR BLADDER-LIKE ORGANISMS FOUND IN TEMPERATE WETLAND HABITATS ON γOPHIUCHUS II. ACTUALLY STAGES IN THE DECAY OF MACROUNICELLULAR PLANTS OF THE GENUS MACROCELLATA INFESTED WITH THE PANSPERMIC VIROID TRANSMOGRUS, WHICH PRODUCES VARIOUS PROTEIN-BASED VIROTOXINS DURING THE DIGESTION OF GENETIC MATERIAL IN PLANTS AND PLANT-LIKE ORGANISMS. ESTIMATED RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CREATION OF OVER 10^5 NEW ORGANIC COMPOUNDS EVERY SOLAR DAY WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE EXPLORED GALAXY. He reached across the console and pressed the instrument data input button. The data transfer link between the materials analyzer and the computer blinked rapidly. The screen flared after a furious moment of transmission and assimilation, DATA RECEIVED He typed unsteadily, append last input to MFA; run After a few seconds of activity, a message appeared. It took considerable effort for him to focus on and actually comprehend it, ***REVISION TO PROXIMATE SOLUTION***
PROXIMATE SOLUTION REACHED, DETAILS FOLLOW TOXIN IS POLYPEPTIDE WITH TWO ACTIVE MOIETIES. TOXIC FRACTION MAY BE NEUTRALIZED WITH BIVALENT CATIONIC BINDER. SITE OF MOST EFFECTIVE TREATMENT IS DESCENDING COLON. RECOMMENDED AGENT: WHEAT BRAN/LEGUMINOUS PROTEIN COLLOIDAL MATRIX. PREFERRED ROUTE: ORAL INGESTION. ENTER "MFA PROCEED" FOR SYNTHETIC PREPARATION OF AGENT. He shrugged, weakly, and followed the instructions. It took him three times to reproduce the necessary command, but he finally got it right. After about two minutes the dietary preparation module produced a small, rectangular covered dish. He lifted the cover and discovered two slices of a brownish bread enclosing a layer of viscous material with an odd odor to it. He sniffed tentatively at the thing, then took a small bite. He found it difficult to chew, but fairly pleasant tasting. It took him about fifteen minutes to consume the entire sandwich, but at last he finished and, still chewing, crawled back over to the toilet. It seemed to tower above him like some mighty mountain peak, and he realized that actually propelling himself up onto that lofty seat in his condition would be a feat roughly equivalent to escaping the planet's gravitational pull on horseback. He contented himself therefore with collapsing noisily in front of it; as it happened, on the sonic cleanser switch. A small metallic ring, about one centimeter in diameter, popped out from under the switch and clattered across the floor. The cleanser hummed into life. He smiled faintly as the irony of the event registered itself in his rapidly fading consciousness. The ring which had disabled his high-tech toilet and very nearly himself was one of the hand-forged links from the strange colonial garments he had salvaged. A last swipe, as it were, at the modern world by a group which chose to secede from it. Acknowledging the intrinsic paradox of existence in this least possible of all impossible universes, he slept. A sudden shift in the footing of the ship jolted the sorting table. From it flutterd a beautifully painted plaque, which landed with a soft ploof on the clean steel floor. On it was a circular structure, surrounded by a number of figures and objects. Below it was a caption, which read, "THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE. The fall and impact proved too much for a small section of the paint decorating the plaque, and the pigment on that corner flaked away, revealing a familiar pale blue beneath. Around the corner in the command cabin, a small white cube began softly to steam.
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